Justifiable Deceit

PROLOGUE

TIERRA CAMPOS

Summerville High School

Red Sands, Arizona

It can never happen to me. That’s the mindset of every teenager who has ever lived. All of us have a false sense of security and an undying belief that bad things only happen to other people because we know everything. I won’t get caught using drugs. I can still drive after drinking these beers. My parents are always wrong. I will know what to do in a crisis. I don’t have to pay attention to this drill because a shooting will never happen here.

My complacency shatters with the first muffled pops coming from the hallway. It sounds like someone clapping textbooks together. Mr. Sassone ignores the interruption and continues his instructions to my class gathered in the school library.

The sound is more distinct now, like a string of firecrackers going off. I share concerned looks with my friends as my annoyed teacher walks toward the entrance to the library to investigate.

“That’s gunfire,” Josh says, his voice cracking.

“They haven’t made an announcement,” one of the students behind me says.

Denial is a powerful thing. We are conditioned to respond to the “code blue” command over the school’s public address system, but there hasn’t been one. My brain refuses to process what my eyes see when a figure materializes at the entrance to the library with a rifle in his hands.

Mr. Sassone rushes at the kid, and the scene plays out like a stop-motion video. The barrel of the weapon comes up as he’s eight steps away…seven…six. The black-clad kid fires three shots into his chest. Mr. Sassone falls forward with his momentum and collapses onto the ground. Time seems to stop, and so does my breathing.

Everybody screams. Some start to run, but I can’t move. I jump when the shooter fires his rifle at the fleeing students, and I watch in horror as several of them fall. Josh jerks me out of my seat and to the ground. Kids next to me tip their table over to shield them from the gunfire. It doesn’t help. Bullets rip right through it.

I cover my head with my arms and squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the wide-open eyes of my best friend stare back at me, locked open after a bullet ripped through her head. This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

The firing stops. I know that’s my chance to do something, anything, but I’m numb and can’t force myself to move. Fear grips my body. All I can do is wait to die.

“Tierra, let’s go!”

“No!”

“Tierra!”

I cover my head with my arms again and try to bury myself in the floor. I’m jerked to my feet and pulled deeper into the library by Josh and Diego. My legs feel like rubber, and I’m ready to collapse back to the ground when I hear shots fired behind me.

Diego veers right towards one of the storage closets along the back wall. A couple of students working at the computers at the far end of the room join us. I trip over a kid with a hole in his chest. The girl next to him is lying in a pool of blood. I’m hoisted back to my feet as I fight the urge to vomit.

A wave of panic surges through me. I know I’m going to die. The firing starts again in a deadly staccato rhythm. I look toward the shooter and see him staring right at us.

Josh opens the door, and we all pile in. Diego is the last one through and slams the storage room door shut. The oak does little to stifle the urgent screams silenced by loud pops from the shooter’s rifle. Lives of people I know just ended. Waves of intense anger and sadness mix with the fear that we’re next.

“We’re going to die!” a girl who crawled into the room with us shouts between sobs.

“Help me,” Diego says, dragging over a piece of steel shelving from the middle of the room to use as a barricade. Josh and another kid join him, positioning it against the wooden door that separates us from certain death. The shooter knows we’re in here. I can only pray that he moves on.

The boys join us in the back of the room. We huddle on the ground when the shooting stops. All we can hear is our own heavy, panicked breathing. One of the girls pulls out her phone and tries to type a text with shaking hands.

“Call 9-1-1,” Aiden whispers, his voice high and anxious.

“Someone is shooting in Summerville High School,” her friend says, fighting to hold back her tears. She already dialed for help. “We’re in a storage closet. In the library. Please hurry!”

The handle jiggles. I hold my breath as we clutch each other harder and stare at the door. We all fight to stifle our sobs and stay quiet. Aiden buries his head in the pile of arms and torsos. I press my eyes closed and grind my teeth together to stop them from chattering.

The jiggling becomes more determined. A few seconds later, a loud thud against the door causes us all to jump. Panic surges through me. He’s hunting us, and it’s terrifying. He’s going to get in here. All I can do is wait for whatever happens next.

“The police are there,” I hear the 9-1-1 dispatcher say over the cell phone. “They’re right outside the library. Is the shooter still there?”

“He’s outside our door,” she whispers, putting it back up to her ear.

A moment later, the muzzle of the rifle points through the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. The gunman lets loose, and bullets pound the wall. The noise is deafening. The sound of each shot pierces my eardrums. The smell of gunpowder permeates my nostrils. I break free of the huddle and get low to the floor. Josh does the same, draping his arm over me.

“Come on, come on…” I plead, quietly willing the police to intervene.

It may be too late. The gunman pushes against the door, then again, and again. Each time it moves the shelving and opens another inch. By the sixth or seventh push, he’s forced it open another six inches.

The shooter sticks the barrel of the rifle through, this time aimed right at us. All he has to do is pull the trigger. I close my eyes for what I think is the final time.

“I am invisible. I am invisible. I am invisible,” I whisper to myself, willing it to be true while I wait for the inevitable.

TEN YEARS LATER

CHAPTER ONE

CAPITOL BEAT

Cable News Studio

Washington, D.C.

The venerable Wilson Newman is one of America’s most respected journalists. The aging anchor no longer crisscrosses the Capital chasing stories like the ones that made him a household name. Now the stories come to him. His no-nonsense interviews and hardball approach with prominent figures of both major parties make his program the single most successful political news hour in America.

“And now for tonight’s final thought,” he says, kicking off his closing monologue. “The shooting at Brockhampton High School in Massachusetts last year has resonated with the American people more than Parkland, Las Vegas, or even the murder of small children at Sandy Hook Elementary. Like the attack on Summerville High School in Arizona ten years ago, the trauma induced by the senseless violence is exceeded only by the lack of motive for it.

“The Brockhampton High shooter, eighteen-year-old Caleb Pratt, killed himself after murdering sixty-six fellow students and teachers. Whatever his reasons were for the heinous attack died with him. The only other person who may know – his friend Elizabeth Schwarzer – remains in a coma at MetroWest Massachusetts Medical Center after being assaulted at a vigil in the days after the massacre.

“The horror of what happened when Caleb walked into his school with a stolen AR-15 and opened fire may compel Congress to pass the first real gun control legislation since 1994. The Safe America Act, introduced by Democratic senator and presidential hopeful Alicia Standish, would ban all magazine-fed semi-automatic weapons, including handguns. The bill is a seismic shift in how Americans perceive gun ownership and will surely be challenged up to the Supreme Court.

“The bill still faces many obstacles to passage. The American Firearms Association is digging in for the fight of their lives. Their mishandling of the Brockhampton shooting has damaged the perception of them, but the progression of this bill in a Republican Congress has rallied their supporters and led to record donations to fund the fight.

“The AFA will have their hands full. Since the shooting at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High in Parkland, Florida, the youth movement has tipped the scales in this debate. Leading the charge now is Ethan Harrington, the Brockhampton victim turned media sensation. He uses his massive social media following to spread his gun control message, and headlines huge rallies organized by the group Action Not Prayers. Both are applying significant pressure on elected representatives.

“There is only limited time for this debate to run its course before campaigning starts ahead of the next election. If the bill is brought to a vote this summer, the result is destined to have a profound impact on the race for the presidency and which political party occupies the White House. That’s my final thought, and it’s for the record.”

Wilson’s face changes from serious to something friendlier as he turns toward a different camera. It’s the same move he’s been using for over a decade and will live on in Internet memes and countless impersonations during reruns of Saturday Night Live long after he’s gone.

“Thank you for watching Capitol Beat; I’m Wilson Newman. Good Night.”

CHAPTER TWO

SENATOR ALICIA STANDISH

Capitol Hill

Washington, D.C.

Rush hour in Washington, D.C. is a misnomer. Rush “hours” is a far more appropriate description. Senator Alicia Standish starts her morning commute around six a.m. Politicians don’t oversleep when Congress is in session. The business of governing is a never-ending grind that eventually wears down the most ardent and energetic people.

Alicia steps out onto the platform of the Capitol South station, determined to cut the seven-minute walk down by a third. Washington is divided into quadrants at the Capitol, and this spot on Pennsylvania Avenue Southeast is known for a different reason than the notorious residence that shares the street. Back to the Grind is the preferred coffee house for bureaucrats and political operatives on Capitol Hill. They get their morning jolt of caffeine with a dark roast blend that’s out of this world. Daniel Wetzel, the senior senator from Arizona, is one of those people.

“Still taking the Metro to work?” he asks when Alicia steps in line alongside him. “You know we have reserved parking.”

“Environmentalists love my small carbon footprint, and taking mass transit burnishes my working-class image.”

“And that’s what’s propelled you to the top ranks of the Democratic Party and made you a frontrunner in the presidential primaries. I get it. Ambushing me here is a little brash, though, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t that the word on the Hill? That I’m the ruthless senator from Massachusetts who gets what she wants?”

“Something like that. What do you want, Alicia?”

“You know what.”

He shakes his head without offering a word until they order large cups of java. Alicia slips the cashier her debit card, causing Daniel to scoff before shoving his wallet back into his jacket pocket. It was an overdramatic gesture. He knew she was going to pay.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, sipping the brew as the pair head towards the Capitol. “I’m assuming you’re here to browbeat me into doing something.”

“I have the entire caucus lined up behind the Safe America Act. The entire caucus except you, that is.”

“I saw the whip count. There are a few other holdouts. How do you walk so fast in those things?” he asks, staring down at her high heels as they walk. “I would break my ankles.”

“I’m tougher than you. Don’t change the subject. You need the progressive creds this bill offers to be relevant in the party. Not to mention being on the right side of history.”

Daniel smirks. “I’m doing just fine, thank you. And remember how the last assault weapons ban worked out for Democrats.”

The Federal Assault Weapons Ban was the colloquial name for a subsection of the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act passed by Congress in September of 1994 and signed into law the same day by President Bill Clinton. It placed restrictions on the number of military features on a gun and banned large-capacity magazines for consumer use.

“It cost Democrats at least forty of the fifty-three total seats we lost in rural areas during the 1994 midterms, and indirectly led to Clinton’s impeachment,” Alicia says.

“A steep political price for a law that was allowed to expire in 2004 per its sunset provision if you ask me.”

“This is different.”

“That’s what we always say. It doesn’t make it true.”

“Yes, it’s a party line you should learn if you plan on keeping your career in politics,” Alicia says, turning to a tried and true ploy as old as politics itself.

Political parties run on a merit-based system. Leadership expects a representative or senator to vote the way they want you to. There are times when they support rogues, especially when it involves seats in swing states. Alicia Standish hails from deep blue Massachusetts and doesn’t have the luxury of defying them, not that she ever needs to.

Daniel Wetzel, on the other hand, represents one of those swing states. Although Arizona has gone blue the last couple of elections, the margins of victory were slim. He’ll need financial help to get re-elected, and the money machines that power modern campaigns have no pause button. For a price, Alicia has the connections to fill his coffers with political action committee donations.

“The DSCC has its doubts about you. Word on the street is that the Republicans are going to run that Hispanic lieutenant governor against you. Wow, that’s going to be an expensive race,” Alicia says, emphasizing words for dramatic effect.

“I’ll get my backing. We can’t afford to lose my seat. You know that.”

“There are other competitive seats we can afford to lose less. This election cycle is going to be the most expensive in American history. The Democrat Senate Campaign Committee only has so many resources they can spread around. They need to pick winners. Who do you think will help them do that?”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions, Alicia,” he says, stopping to let a group of school children unload from a bus in front of the Library of Congress. Some of them wave at the pair of legislators, who smile and wave back. Alicia wishes she didn’t have to force hers.

“Daniel, I may be making assumptions, but I’m going to be the Democratic frontrunner going into the primaries. I’m articulate, passionate, and have policies that resonate with our base and independent voters. Would you bet against me in the general election?”

“It’s a long time until then.”

“Not that long,” Alicia says, with a quick shake of her head. “I’m only going to get stronger, and you’re going to need me at your side at rallies in Phoenix and Tucson if you want to have a chance at reelection.”

“Is that the carrot?”

“Yes, now here’s the stick: Do you want to be on the naughty list when I get sworn in on Inauguration Day?”

The only thing worse than being threatened is being threatened by someone who can follow through on it. Alicia is a master player in the great poker game that is American politics, and she wins without bluffing. If she’s saying she’ll hold a grudge, Daniel knows it’s because she will.

“Be reasonable, Alicia. Arizona is a ‘Constitutional Carry’ state. Over a third of my constituents own firearms. Our state legislature is making it even easier to possess and carry them. It’s not New England. If I go against them, what do you think my chances of reelection will be?”

“I know it’s been a decade, but you remember the Summerville High shooting. You represent those families. What do you think your chances are if you don’t support me?”

“I get it. I know this is personal for you because of what happened to your parents, but your bill passing this Congress is a long shot.”

Alicia bites her lower lip. The mention of her mother and father causes her to feel a wave of sadness that she struggles to push aside. She gets emotional during interviews whenever they are brought up. This isn’t the time for discussion of her motives.

“This is the best chance we’ve had in a generation to pass meaningful gun control legislation. We have a legion of young, vocal activists and a sympathetic public that has the American Firearms Association in full retreat. If this bill fails, it had better not be because a member of my party didn’t support it.”

“Let me give you a piece of unsolicited advice,” Daniel says as they reach Constitution Avenue and prepare to go in separate directions. “You’re a hammer, and everyone on the Hill looks like a nail to you. Sooner or later, you’re going to swing and miss and smash your thumb. When you do, it will be the end of your presidential ambitions and probably your career in politics.”

“Thanks for the tip. Now let me return the favor: Support this bill, or you’ll be packing your office next year. If you think I’m bluffing, fine, call it. Otherwise, I’ll expect an announcement of support by the end of the week. Enjoy your coffee.”