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Monday, May 06, 2013

Installment 23 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.


Copyright (C) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.


Scene 23 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America




Landlord: Paula Slater



I could hear my lungs heaving inward and outward as I
desperately staggered back home. As I raced up the icy
steps onto the porch, I grabbed the top rung of the railing.
I had to bend over the railing in order to catch my breath.
When I gasped for air, the frosty air nearly froze my lungs
on contact. But despite my condition, I didn’t have time to
waste. All I could think of was trying to save Paul’s ass.

The mosaic pane glass door was locked. “Damn it, anyway…!
Where the hell are my keys?” I mumbled to myself. I plunged
my hands into all four pockets—front and back—coming up
empty handed, nearly freaked me out.

Knowing that Paul might be tortured, made my gut ache. Sure,
Paul wasn’t the most reliable friend. But how could he be, I was
married. At least he was a decent enough guy who didn’t want
to infringe on my long term happiness. So I had to find my keys
and try the best I could to help him.

But how…? I thought.

My keys weren’t in my pants pockets, as I banged on the door.

“What the hell’s going on, anyway?” my grumpy husband
shouts from the rooftops.

“It’s me. Your one and only, dear.” I thought that might shut
him up. But I was wrong, as usual…

With his checkered red and white robe draped over his
shoulders, and his nakedness exposed like a new born babe,
he says, “Where the hell have you been at this time of night?”

“Tending to the garden, dear. But that’s beside the point.
I’ve got things to do, now let me in before I freeze to death!”

His sheepish scowl unnerved me, as I brushed past his alcoholic
scent. I ran to the filing cabinet and went to the drawer marked
“tenants lease agreements” and rifled through the documents
until I reached Paul Krugar’s agreement.

“What do you think you’re doing at this time of night? I thought
we had a date tonight?” my hubby said, his erection nearly
stabbing a hole in the robe draped over his shoulders.

Annoyed, all I could say was, “Get out of here, do you hear me?”

Acting whiny, he says, “C’mon, it’s our time together. You know,
it’s Thursday. Every Thursday, just like clockwork, my love.”

“Well, I’ve got more than clockwork to accomplish. But I’ll
tell yah what I’ll do… If you’ll go back to bed like a good boy,
I’ll wake you up when I’m through here.”

“What’s so important that it can’t wait till morning?”

Seeing his pathetic horniness, I said, “When I’m through, I
will go straight to bed, and I will screw you to death! Your brains
too, or what’s left of them. Is that abundantly clear?”

“Yes, dear…,” he replied as he waddled off to the bedroom,
the checkered robe falling off his shoulders onto the floor as
the bedroom door closed behind him.

“That’s my boy,” I said under my breath.

Here it is… Paul’s rental agreement. References. Where are
they? Oh here, on the back of the form. It was late at night,
but I had no choice; I had to call the number listed.
I dialed the number of Rick Olson, and waited.

And waited. And waited some more…

Finally, someone answered the phone, and said, “Rick
Olson’s residence, may I help you?”

Sounds like an answering service to me, but I replied,
“I’d like to speak to, Mr. Olson.”

“He’s not in at the moment, but can I take a message?
He should be back shortly.”

“Is this his wife?”

“This is his answering service. May I take a message?”

Just what I thought. “Tell him that a friend of his, Paul
Krugar, is in trouble. Please have him
call me as soon as possible. It’s urgent, okay?”

“Will do…”

I left her my name and number, and hung up the phone;
and proceeded to do my wifely duty. I opened the bedroom
door and slid into bed, and whispered into my hubby’s ear:
“It’s time to get up, my dear.”



**************************************************************************


Jake Jacobs (a.k.a.—Paul Krugar)


The last thing I remembered was a sharp pain in my shoulder just
after the FBI agent pulled a hood over my head. I had no idea
where I was, and the fact that the hood nearly suffocated me to
death didn’t help matters any.

The complete blackness was stifling as I tried unsuccessfully
to remove the hood. My hands were cuffed behind my back. My
head was leaning against something, probably the backseat of
the FBI’s car from the sound of things. I was constantly
jarred to and fro as the car, van, or whatever traveled up hills,
down hills, around corners, stopped at corners, lights, or
whatever.

Panicked, I shouted, “Can you take this fucking thing off
my head!”

Instantly, I got a response, a jolt to the ribs. “Christ...!”

A hardened voice pierced the blackness of my senses, and said,
“Shut the fuck up, buddy. Speak only when spoken to... Do
you comprehend, amigo?”

The pain induced by whatever object that was used to jab my
ribs was so horrific, I could only nod my head.

Suddenly, the asshole who’d so kindly given me those
delightful instructions, grabbed me by the shirt collar and my
right arm. I sensed a door had been opened. A moment later,
I was yanked from the vehicle. In the void of the hood, I felt
five large fingertips press my head downward while someone
else pulled me to my feet.

“Well, you’re home, partner.”

I didn’t know whether to respond or not.

“Speak when spoken to...!”

In a muffled tone, I screamed, “Make up your fucking
mind, Godzilla!” Before I could catch myself from flying
off the handle, an excruciating pain enveloped my gut,
causing me to collapse to the ground. As I laid stretched
out on my back, the impact had embedded an impression
of the rough contour of the concrete on the palms of my
hands.

The next thing I heard was, “C’mon, we haven’t got all day.”

A large and a medium set of hands jerked me to my feet,
pushing me forward into the path of darkness created by
the hood. I felt like the power had gone off in my apartment
during a rainstorm, but I was unable to use my hands to feel
for objects in my path. My jaws were tight and I was certain
my face was contorted as though it were about to ram into a
wall. As doors opened and closed--keys jingled and clanked
when inserted in the locks--made me nauseousBefore 
my motion sickness overtook me, I was shoved into a chair.

A second later, the blackness became a shocking brilliance.
The hood had been removed, and my eyes were blinded by
the floodlights bearing down on me. My hands instinctively
tried to raise themselves as shades, but couldn’t move. They
were still cuffed behind my back.

My eyes were shuttered in the close position, but I tried
with all my might to lift a small portion of my right lid to
see who was ruining my life. Without warning, both of my
eyelids were wrenched open. A nice and professional FBI
agent says, “If you don’t want this ugly mug of mine to
be the last thing you ever see, I’d suggest you sign the
confession we’ve so thoughtfully completed for you. All
we need is your signature.”

With saliva rolling down my cheek and the agent’s huge
claw pulling my head towards his mug, I replied, “My name
is Jake Jacobs. My serial number is—“

Another agent stepped in, and said, “What’s this shit...?!
Do you think you’re still in this man’s Army, or
something? Those days are over, pal.”

“Bullshit! The fucking difference between now and
then, pal...is there’s a new friggin’ enemy,” I said with
taut lips, and a glare that could kill.

“And who might that be...?” the stranger asked, lighting a
cigarette, and exhaling after enjoying the blue smoke
that filtered into his lungs.

“You motherfucking government thugs, that’s who?”
Before I’d even finished my spiel, the chair I was sitting
on became almost weightless as I tumbled to the floor.
I landed on my hip, damn near shattering the agents
eardrums in the process. I heard a crack in my hip, and
the sharpest pain I’ve ever endured. As though this was
just an ordinary interrogation, the agents didn’t even
flinch, snapping me upright two-seconds later.

“Let’s get something straight, somebody doesn’t like you.
And if you’ve got any brains, you know that you’ve got
no rights. None whatsoever... Are we on the same
wavelength? Because if we’re not, you’ll stay with us until
we retire, and then only if you’re lucky. Know what I'm saying?”

After spitting out some phlegm, I gazed threateningly in the senior
agents direction, and said, “Are you trying to say, I don’t even get
one phone call?”

“Now, you’re coming ‘round. I suppose you thought we forgot
to give you your Miranda warning, huh?” the senior agent says
as he took a drag from his cigarette.

“Now that you mention it, yah... Aren’t you supposed to read me my
rights?”

“Enough, smart-ass... The joyride’s over. We can do any fucking
thing we want, and more. So I’d watch your trap from now on.”

“My name’s, Kenneth Foster, and this upstanding gentleman
is my partner, Phil Hill.”

My eyes squinted and the pupils behind them made direct contact
with agent’s Hill’s, and I muttered, “We’ve met. He thinks he walks on
water like Jesus Christ. But in his case, shit floats...!”

Agent Foster put out his arm, blocking agent Hill from ripping
into my ass, and says, “ I don’t think I’d better leave you
two alone together, or indefinite detention might become
something more infinite.”

“Like in infinity,” I said, blood soaking my jeans and wool sweater.

“Well, put... Something like that.”

“By the way, would you fuckers like to elaborate upon why you’ve
chosen me to become a test case in President Adolf S. Steinhart’s War
on Terror?”

“Yeah, well we’ve got a few questions ourselves we want answered
before we place you on trial,” the senior man said, sitting back down
behind his desk stubbing out his cigarette.

“I asked first.”

Oh, shit. That didn’t go over too well. But luckily the senior man
could take a joke, such as it was: a bad joke at that.

Looking into his hands, he raised his index finger, and says, “You,
young man, are treading on thin ice. Take it from me, that’s not a
good sign. But since you asked first, I guess I’ll play along. We’ve
been monitoring your activities.”

“Why...? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He put his fingers into a prayer triangle, and says, “When you
contact terrorists, that’s when things get dicey, so to speak.
Understand?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I haven't contacted any damn
terrorists. Are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

“Okay, we found out it was a wrong number. But after doing a
sneak and peek on your apartment, we copied the contents of your
computer. And, boy, what we found was the jackpot, partner.”

Outraged, I said bluntly, “Is this crap related to the illegal
eavesdropping that our illustrious President has undertaken?”

I watched him remove his blue blazer, setting it on
the back of his chair like a coat hanger, as he
responded nonchalantly, “Was illegal... It’s perfectly
legal at the moment. In fact, it’s retroactive. Do you
understand what that means?”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, I’m stupid. Clue me in...”

“It means—“

“Hey, get real. Christ, you think I was born yesterday. Of
course I know what retroactive means. From day one, he’s
off the hook. His illegality has suddenly become legal. He’s
what we call a person who’s above the law. How
am I doing?”

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” the senior man says slouched
in his government gray generic office chair.

“So what’s all this to do with me?”

“What evidence we’ve procured is legal as hell, and that
means your ass is between a rock and a hard place. Get
my drift...?”

“I guess I'll go back to giving you only my name, rank, serial
number and date of birth.”

“Funny.”

I quipped, “I thought that might put a twinkle in your shitty
blue eyes.”

With a confidence of a con man, the senior man says, “We’re
going to use all those political thriller plots to hang your ass
out to dry. How does that sound?”

“Care to loosen the cuffs, the circulation in my arms is about
nonexistent?”

He nodded to his partner, and says, “Cuff him in the front.”

As I felt the almost painful rush of blood back into my arms
veins, I said, “Do you think a judge would have the audacity
to believe that those plot ideas were in anyway a threat to
National Security?”

“Yes, I do...”

“I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other.
As far as I’m concerned, the interrogation is over...,” I said
as I got to my feet. “You can hood me if you like, waterboard me,
or whatever torture suits your fancy. But you’ll never get another
word out of me worthy of the effort. Terrorists aren’t the enemy
of America. It’s folks like you thugs, and the mafia running
the show—and our government’s blowback, both domestically
and internationally—that’s the enemy of all decent and patriotic
Americans. Had you guys acted properly in your dealings with
your fellow Americans, and our foreign diplomats dealt peacefully
with the international community: we wouldn’t have any
problems with terrorists as we do now. You should be ashamed
of yourself! Doesn’t that swearing in oath at the FBI Academy
have any meaning anymore? You’re the domestic enemy of
the Constitution, not me...!”

“Are you through?”

“Quite...”

“Get him out of my sight...!”

I was hooded and dragged out of the interrogation room
with a smile on my face, a smile that says: you’re the enemy
of the state—and you know it, deep down in your souls.



*********************************************************************

As I heard the door close behind me, I felt the tight grip
of my captors pulling me into the corridor. I staggered
forward, blinded by the hood over my head, then I nearly
stumbled as I was shoved onto a chair or bench—I didn’t
know which.

“We’re going to prepare you for your maker, Jake,” a gruff
voice said. The harsh and grave tone sounded like
agent what’s-his-name? Yeah, that’s him: agent Phil Hill.

I heard some noise on the floor around me, and said, “What’s
the occasion, Halloween?”

“Yeah, the ghost of Christmas past, Mr. Scrooge. Sort of
a Christmas carol from hell, as we like to call it. But the clanking
of chains is going to be around your ankles, partner.”

Before I knew it, I felt the cold steel being attached around
my ankles and the sound of the chain in-between dangling
between my legs, as the guard says, “That ought to do it, Phil.
Take him away, he's all yours.”

“Thanks for the warning...”

“You’re welcome.” the guard replied.

“Care to clue me in on what’s goin’ on?” I said, from the
vantage point of complete darkness.

An eerie gust of air spoke arrogantly into my ear, “You’ll
learn soon enough. Now stand up, and follow me.”

I could only laugh, “Sure thing. Anymore brilliant ideas...?
A friggin’ hood over my head, and you want me to follow you.
What do you think I am, a hunting dog? Of course, considering
the smell of the likes of you, I couldn’t miss the smelly scent...”

There was a pregnant pause before I keeled over. I felt a
boot clip the back of my right knee, as I found myself on the
floor once more. Disoriented.

“C’mon, Grace... Can’t you even stand on your own two feet?
Let’s help him up, and dust him off so the magistrate doesn’t
think we’ve been torturing our honored guest here.”

I shook my head as they jerked me to my feet. Moments
later I staggered into a room full of confusion, or so it seemed.

Someone said, with what appeared to be an amplified voice,
“Remove the hood...”

The blinding lights confused me. As the room moved
around, I saw a man in a black robe perched like a judge in
a trial court on his royal highness's bench. No matter, all
judges think they'll royalty, anyway. Say a cross word,
and you're cited for contempt. Now that's contemptible...!

He said, “Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Jake Jacobs?”

Foolishly I asked, “Why am I here.”

Peering from behind his horn-rimmed bifocals, the judge
says, “I, Wilbur C. Winslow, will be the judge of that. Yours
is not to say, yours is to do or die. And with the current
Patriot Act, that’s precisely the case, young man. We decide
why you’re being incarcerated and for how long, is that
understood?”

“No...! I’m an American citizen, and I object, dammit! This is
a crock of shit! Pure and simple.”

With jowls flapping and his bushy eyebrows raised, I
knew I was in trouble for the umpteenth time, as he
removed his glasses slowly, and says, “If I hear one more
disparaging comment from you, you’ll be doing some
serious time in the hole. Is that clear?”

I looked around at the smirks on the FBI agents faces,
and the nudges of the two federal guards on either side
of me, and said, “I can take a hint.”

With ruffled feathers, his honor says, “Good. Now that
that’s settled, let’s get to the heart of the manner. Agent
Hill, I've read the charges against this defendant, and it
stinks.”

“Sir...?” he asks as he began to approach the bench.

The judge put up his hand, and says, “No need to approach
the bench. Stay put... Anyway, I don’t see how dialing
a wrong number classifies a person as a terrorist?”

“Well, your honor, the call was made to a suspected
terrorist, and after we did a sneak and peek on Mr. Jacobs
apartment, we found conspiracies plotted out in his
computer, your honor.”

With a frown, and a gulp of water, the judge replies,
“It says here, if I’m not mistaken, that Mr. Jacobs is a novelist.”

“That’s correct your honor.”

With his glasses near the tip of his nose, the judge says
in a condescending way, “And you don’t think that novelists
don’t write down their ideas and plot them out?”

“Well, your honor...” agent Hill tried to say, but was
cutoff...and took a deep breath.

“Well nothing, young man... Common sense would have
told you that this man is no more a terrorist than I am.
Nor are you, agent Hill, a terrorist... Isn't that so...?”

Shaken, agent Hill shot back, “Certainly not, your honor.”

“Then I see no valid reason to hold this man, even one
second longer. Is that understood? Release him immediately!
This is a miscarriage of justice, and a perversion of the judicial
and constitutional process in my estimation.”

With a stiff upper lip, that appeared as stiff as the pale beige
wallpaper adorning the secret courtroom, he says, “I’m sorry,
your honor. I can’t do that.”

“And why not, may I ask?” the honorable judge responded
with a defiant expression emerging beneath the veneer of civility.

“President Adolf S. Steinhart has characterized this detainee
as a noncombatant, and has chosen to incarcerate said
noncombatant indefinitely.”

The judge slammed his gavel down, the resounding thud
shot thunder through the veins of all present in the courtroom,
“And who in the hell does he think he is, anyway? King George
of merry old England?”

“Perhaps, your honor. Perhaps,” the agent said snidely.

“You’ll be in contempt of this court, Mr. Hill, if you fail
to follow my direct orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. But I have my orders, your honor. And I
take my orders from the President of the United States.”

“Do you realize you've just broken your solemn oath of office?”

“Well, whistle-blowers aren't getting much help these
days from the Congress or the Court, sir. I have my
priorities, you have yours...”

Showing his resolve, the honorable judge pointed to the
bailiffs, and order them to release the prisoner.

Before they could comply with the directive, the FBI
agent says, “If it may please the court, if you proceed I
shall be forced to arrest you, sir.”

Totally outraged, the honorable Wilber C. Winslow, says, “
Is that a threat, agent Hill?”

Without blinking an eye, agent Hill says, “That’s a promise,
your honor. Care of the Patriot Act, I might add. If you read
the contents of said Patriot Act, we can and will do as we please.
Now, is that understood, Judge Winslow?”

“Perfectly. The defendant is guilty as charged, and will be
remanded to the custody of the FBI and confined until such
time as the President of the United States so releases said
detainee: Mr. Jake Jacobs. It is so ordered. Court
dismissed.”

My mouth fell open as the judged conceded all legal issues
to the executive branch of government like a wilted flower.

Before I could say anything, tape was slapped over my
mouth and the black hood was pulled over my face.

An evil blackness, accompanied by a bleakness of heart,
had taken over my life and soul....

A nightmare personified beyond my wildest dreams: my
America had vanished. Instantaneously destroyed...!

As my gut ached, and my throat developed a frog in it,
and my body shuddered at the thought; tears of sorrow
formed within the currents of my thoughts. Paradise
was Lost.

Welcome to the USSA.

************************************************************************
************************************************************************
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - 
F. Scott latest published novel. I hope you enjoy it as much
as I enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts)KoboSmashwords and other fine 
stores & affiliates.

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Here are excellent previews of the following novels for your 
reading pleasure. If you like "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel 
of America"--perhaps you might enjoy these books penned 
by F. Scott. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.



Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. 


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Al-Ahram Weekly | People | Limelight: Bourne to be a classic

A tribute to the world's best thriller writer: Robert Ludlum with a
quote or two from novelist F. Scott Sinclair in the process.