You are a journalist for a day.

Approx 3,363 words

Troy's Big Break!

©2005 by W. E. Lopez

Lauren White responded to the knock at her open door without looking up from the copy on her desk. Her blue pencil swiftly marked errors in font, punctuation, and style.

"You sent for me, Mrs. White?" Troy Hodges said.

"Oh, Troy, yes. It looks as if this will be your lucky day. The request you submitted to the Public Information Office of the police department came back approved. You'll finally get out of the composing room for a chance to demonstrate your ability as a reporter while making a ride-along in a police patrol car."

"My big break!" Troy enthusiastically replied. After six years in the composing room, setting headline type by hand, advertising copy on a linotype, and story copy at a computer keyboard, he had a great desire to advance his career and become a journalist. If he could come up with usable copy during this ride along, Mrs. White might move him from the flourescent recesses of the composing room to the light of day as a full fledged reporter! "When do I get to make this ride along, ma'am?"

"This afternoon, Troy. You'll be riding with a patrol car on the PM watch. Do you think you'll be up to it after eight hours in the composing room? Remember, this is only a favor to you, a chance to show your worth as a newsman, I'm not giving you time off from your paid duties."

"Yes, ma'am. No problem! I'll be ready!"

"Fine, fine…" Lauren said, absently. "I'll be looking for your copy tomorrow. A routine ride-along might not seem like breaking news, but a good reporter can take a story some might consider as ground-chuck, add some sizzle and produce copy equivalent to filet mignon! Now let me finish getting this story ready for the afternoon edition." She went back to proofing the text on her desk and ignored Hodges as he left the office.

Troy's regular shift would end at four PM, but he persuaded his supervisor to let him off a few minutes early. He was caught up, his work finished, and he could hardly wait to walk the six blocks to the police department. He hoped the afternoon ride would not be uneventful. A bank robbery would be nice. A murder could provide ammunition for his keyboard. He was certain he could make even a minor fender-bender interesting to the managing editor. All he had to do was add the sizzle!

During six years in the back room, Troy had read thousands of news articles as he prepared copy for the huge rotary presses. He knew what he liked in a feature, he had favorite reporters of his own. He would borrow from their style and presentation and produce respectable copy until his own technique would emerge. All he needed was this one break!

"Just one more," Pamela Shore told Troy as he signed what must have been the fifteenth release form, promising not to hold the city of Lansing responsible in the event of accident, injury, or death during his ride along. "I know it seems like a lot, but you have to realize, law enforcement is a very dangerous occupation. We appreciate the opportunity to make our duties more available to the public, but the police department can't accept the responsibility for your welfare, Mr. Hodges."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Try replied. He signed, again and again, with a smile on his face. He would have volunteered to stand in the middle of a gang shoot out if he thought it would get him a big story for Lauren White. Well, perhaps not exactly in the middle; he would like the opportunity to get his story back to the paper.

Officer Shore introduced Troy to Dominguez and Lafen, the two officers he would ride with for the remainder of the shift. Troy carefully took in the details of the two men, wanting to commit them to memory for the copy he would write. Dominguez was 32, a seven year veteran of the police force. Married, with two children, he stood six-one and was solidly built.

Lafen was a large black man, easily six-five. His slender build attested to his years of training as a distance runner on the college track team while he pursued a degree in police science. He was 26 and had been with the Lansing Police Department for two years.

"Call me Tony," Officer Dominguez said as they shook hands. "Bob and I will enjoy having you with us on this patrol, as long as you stay in the back seat and out of our way. No disrespect for your profession, but we don't want you hurt and we don't want you interfering with our duties. Understood?"

Troy acknowledged he did, and the three men went out to the black and white cruiser they would share for the next eight hours.

Leaving the parking garage, they drove along Logan Street, out past Gier Park and Jones Lake to the neighborhoods surrounding Capital City Airport. For three hours Troy was nearly bored to tears as he felt his big chance slipping away from him. The two officers wrote three traffic citations and responded to a bar brawl, but nothing Troy considered particularly newsworthy happened. Nevertheless, he scribbled frequent notes in his steno book, catching the nuances of routine calls on the police radio, the sights and sounds both inside the police cruiser and in the business and residential streets they patrolled.

"All units in the vicinity and Love-12," the police radio crackled with the voice of the dispatcher, "Proceed to the Logan street gate at LAN and investigate a reported disturbance." Love-12! That was their call sign. This might be the break Troy was anxiously hoping for.

"Love-12, 10-33, Code 2. Fire and ambulance responding. Reported explosion and fire. PR is Mackelroy, airport security. Suspect in custody. Transport ASAP" The dispatcher's voice was calm and evenly spaced. You might have thought she was ordering a pizza with sausage and anchovy as she advised them of the name and job of the person responding, along with the nature of the call.

Lafen hit the switches for lights and siren, Code 2, and punched the gas pedal. The Ford Crown Vic surged with the sudden accelleration and Troy felt himself pushed into the cushions of the seat. Troy admired the smooth teamwork between the two police officers as each checked cross streets of approaching intersections. Dominguez shouted "Clear!" to Lafen who was driving, or "Not clear!" in the event of cross traffic. On the straight-away approaching the east gate to Capital City Airport, the police cruiser sped along at 80 miles per hour before Lafen hit the brakes, skidding the cruiser into the entrance of the airport.

An aircraft was engulfed in flames but four vehicles were dousing it with foam in an effort to save what they could. Paramedics and ambulances with flashing lights were nearby while the EMT personnel rendered immediate aid.

"Ten o'clock!" Dominguez said, pointing to a spot two hundred yards away where half a dozen security personnel had a man on the ground and were busily searching him. Lafen pulled to a stop nearby and killed the siren. Troy wished he had a camera to record the blazing airliner but he didn't, so he followed Lafen and Dominguez while they took the suspect into custody.

"No question about it," one of the airport guards said to Dominguez. "He was seen running from the aircraft just before the explosion. We figure he was trying to plant an explosive device with a timer set to go off after the passengers had been loaded and the plane was in the air, but the timer malfunctioned and he was lucky to get away with his life. Six other ground personnel weren't so lucky, and there are several with serious burns."

"Any ID?" Dominguez asked.

"Catering service employment badge. It's a local firm contracted by the airline, but all employee's have been vetted. He could be a new hire. Maybe he is a suicide bomber who chickened out at the last moment?"

"Maybe, who knows? We'll search him again, then take him downtown. I'm sure there will be a dozen agencies on the scene before long. They'll investigate everything. You fellows did a good job. We'll take it from here."

Mackelroy, the security supervisor, said, "If we'd done a good job, there wouldn't be six bodies and an aircraft on fire. We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Don't beat yourself over the head," Dominguez told him. "If a terrorist is determined to destroy property and kill as many people as possible, and if he doesn't care if he dies while doing so, there is not much we can do to prevent it in a free country. Not without drastically changing the way we live."

Lafen finished a detailed frisk of the suspect and shoved him into the back seat of the cruiser. "Get in," Dominguez said to Troy.

"With him?" the would-be reporter asked.

"Unless you want to call for a taxi," the officer snorted.

Troy slid into the rear while the two officers got into the patrol car and they headed downtown at a liesurely rate. Troy surveyed the suspect. Obviously of middle-eastern descent, dark hair, dark eyes, the man was in his late 20's or early 30's. He seemed proud of his accomplishment but did not appear anxious to talk about it.

At the police station, Dominguez and Lafen escorted him inside and began processing him, complete with fingerprints and photographs. Troy persuaded the police photographer to make an extra copy for him to submit with his story. Booking the suspect took an hour and a half. By then, Charles Brackett, an assistant from the District Attorney's office had arrived and was anxious to begin interrogation of the prisoner. Brackett's counterpart was Helen Warner from the public defender's office. She was allowed twenty minutes alone with the prisoner before signaling Brackett they were ready to speak.

"My client wishes to inform you his name is Mousala ab Sula, a native born citizen of Iraq. He serves as a combatant in The Allah is Great Brigade and claims the protection of the Geneva Convention as a prisoner of war."

"You're not buying that, are you Helen?" Brackett asked her. "He's simply using that to avoid the death penalty. I'm sure he's aware that Michigan has no death penalty statute, but since his crime took place on airport property, it falls under the jurisdiction of the US Attorney and he can be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, in which case the government may seek the death penalty for six counts of murder and acts of international terrorism. I don't buy it and I won't listen to that excuse."

"I'm sorry, Charles, but that's the position we will take with the Michigan state court. I intend to file paperwork to have his status legitimized as a prisoner of war. It's the only way I can protect my client."

"Helen, I can't let you take this case out of my hands. It's an election year and I intend to run for DA. There's no way I'll let the people of this city think I'm going soft on a murderer, plain and simple. No way!" Brackett stood up and stormed his way out of the interrogation room.

Troy Hodge had decided not to accompany Dominguez and Lafen on the remainder of their patrol, and had stayed at the police station to see what he could learn from the interrogation. Brackett allowed him to observe from the viewing room, but only with the understanding that his office would have a final say on any story submitted by him.

"You understand, this will arouse serious publicity in the press, Hodges. I can't afford to have potential jurors tainted by irresponsible reporting before we can even have this suspect arraigned."

Troy hated bending under the pressure of what he felt to be censorship, but he respected the ADA's position.

He stood with Brackett and three police officer's in the viewing room while Helen Warner whispered to her client. "Damn!" Brackett uttered to no one in particular. "I hate this political bull-shit!"

"Do you think there's any possibility the feds will buy that prisoner of war claim, Charles?" Lieutenant Mel Ambrose asked.

"It's always dicey, Mel. The court opinions change with the winds of politics. On the one hand, the US is at war with Iraq, and ab Sula in there rightly sees us as a beligerant nation occupying his country. On the other hand, the US does not officially recognize any terrorist organization as providing a legitimate command structure, rather they are outlaws with no protection under the Geneva Convention. It all depends upon the arguments I can submit and how well they will stand up through several layers of appeals courts. I want this case! I want this son of a bitch to spend the rest of his life in a penetentiary right here in Michigan!" Brackett smacked a fist against the palm of his hand.

Troy said nothing. He was of an undecided mind also. He favored the death penalty, figuring society had a right to protect itself from those who would take the life of innocent civilians, but he had recently become aware of the economic advantage to the tax payer of sentencing a prisoner to life without parole. It was simply cheaper and emminently more practical. If convicted and sentenced to death, the automatic appeals guaranteed by the justice system and favored by the ACLU simply enriched the lawyer's who worked both sides of the case, all at taxpayer expense. The cost of legal procedures was more than double the cost of forty years of imprisonment!

"Excuse me, Mr. Brackett, I know I have no official standing here…" Troy said.

"What the…? Who the heck are you?" Brackett asked.

"Hodges, sir, Troy Hodges. I'm covering the story for the Lansing Guardian. Remember? I'm also a Sergeant First Class with the Michigan National Guard."

"Oh, right… I remember now, sorry, I've had a lot on my mind."

"Understandable, sir, but I agree with you. It would be a great disservice to the people of Michigan if this matter were taken entirely out of your hands. The crime was committed right here, even if the airport property technically falls under the jurisdiction of the federal government. What you want, what the people of this state want, is to have this Sula fellow to plead guilty to crimes against the people of this state. Isn't that right?"

Brackett thought for a moment. What he really wanted was a protracted court case which would guarantee him weeks or months of media coverage just prior to the election, but he would not be against a guilty plea. "What do you have in mind, Hodges?"

"Well, sir, one of the things I have to do as an instructor with the Guard is familiarize our soldiers with military justice, in particular the Geneva Convention and the rules governing warfare. Now, I was thinking…." Troy outlined some points of the Geneva Convention which Brackett might not be entirely familiar with.

"It's worth a try," Brackett said. He pulled out his cell-phone, called his office and gave brief orders to a legal secretary. "And get that hand carried to me at police headquarters as soon as you have it typed, Alice." He ended the call. "I hope this works, Hodges. Let's see if they have any coffee in this place. We'll let Miss Warner and the suspect talk over their options.

Over coffee, Troy and Brackett continued their discussion of the Geneva Convention and how it could be applied to terrorists. "It really galls me to go against the official US policy and recognize these so-called military organizations, Hodges, but if this works, perhaps the government will see some advantage also."

Before the two had finished a second cup of coffee, Alice Simkins delivered the requested document to ADA Brackett who took it immediately to interrogation room and handed it to Miss Warner.

"This document will officially recognize your client's claim as a legitimate soldier of the Allah is Great Brigade, Helen. He will not be interrogated further by me and will not be required to furnish any information regarding co-conspirators. He will, however, be required to admit his role in this morning's bombing and the deaths of several individuals. As a defense attorney, I know you will be against any such admission, but it is the only way I can lawfully accept his claim to be a soldier without failing in my duty to prosecute him under the laws of Michigan. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Charles, you have an oath of office to fulfill." She pushed the paper across the table to Mousala and handed him a pen. "It is my recommendation that you sign this document, Mr. ab Sula. This will legitimize your status as a prisoner of war and afford you all protection guaranteed by the Geneva Convention."

Mousala looked at the document and again at his attorney. "You're sure of this?" he asked.

"Of course. Just sign above your name."

Mousala read what little he could. English was not his native language and legaleese was not easily understood by most people who were native born Americans. He signed with a flourish and a triumphant smile swept his face! He had tricked the stupid Americans once more! Oh, he might have to spend the next few years in Guantamo Bay in Cuba, but the rules of the Geneva Convention require that all prisoners of war be decently treated and repratriated to their homeland at the end of hostilities! Allah is Great! Allah Akbar!

"Now, if you'll just sign as the witness, Helen."

The attorney added her signature.

"Thank you." Brackett went to the large mirror on the far wall and rapped with his knuckles. "Would you come in now, Lieutenant Ambrose?"

When Mel Ambrose entered the room, Brackett said to him, "You can call General Sturgis at his home now. Please inform him we have a prisoner to turn over to him and request he convene a general court martial as soon as possible."

"What?" Helen Warner shouted. "You can't do that! The prisoner must be handed over and be placed in confinement at Guantanamo Bay! That's what we agreed to!"

"I'm sorry, Helen, it's not what you agreed to. Your client admitted his part in the commission of an act of war as a member of legitimate military forces. As such, he is required by the Geneva Convention to wear the uniform of his Army, easily identified and setting him apart from local civilians. He is also required to bear arms openly.

"Your client has not complied as a lawful combatant. It is therefore my determination that he is a spy, a spy who was apprehended in the commission of acts against the people of the United States. General Sturgis, as the area commander of local troops where the prisoner was taken, has the full authority to convene a court martial and pronounce sentence. As such, I'm sure your client will be hanged in due course… unless he wishes to change his plea," Brackett said, dangling the paper in front of her.

Helen Warner was furious! Had she been tricked? No. Had she failed to protect her client's best interests? Sort of. She wanted to get him recognized as a lawful combatant of a beligerant nation, and she had done that. But her client had not conducted himself as a soldier, he had been out of uniform and therefore was guilty of espionage in any country of the world. The penalty for espionage is summary execution by the convening authority. General Sturgis of the Michigan National Guard was that authority.

Should she let the deal stand? Would Brackett be open to a deal? Shouldn't she secure the best deal she could for her client? She abhorred Mousala's crime, but she was ethically bound to do what she could.

"Charles, I think we would like to plead guilty in a Michigan court, if you're still offering."