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Aftershocks: From Hellmarsh With Love Ep. 6
Editor’s Note: This is the fifth installment of Scott McKay’s new novel, From Hellmarsh With Love, which is being released exclusively at The American Spectator each weekend in September and October, before its full publication on Amazon later this fall. From Hellmarsh With Love is the sequel to King of the Jungle, which was serialized at The American Spectator in Spring 2024. You can purchase it on Amazon here. And you can pre-order a signed copy of From Hellmarsh With Love at this link.
So far in the story, our intrepid hero, conservative podcaster and web publisher Mike Holman, married the love of his life, former Secret Service agent and president-saving heroine PJ Chang. After the wedding, Mike and PJ hopped on a jet for a honeymoon in London where all is not as it should be. Amid the growing chaos in Great Britain and the increasing disconnect between its ruling class and people, Mike changes his mind, thanks to PJ’s subtle influence, and begins doing interviews with some of the country’s movers and shakers.
The new Hard Left British government does not like that one bit, and Mike finds himself arrested on suspicion of conspiring to commit an act of terrorism. PJ is now thrown into a completely unfamiliar position, in a foreign country, beset by a hostile establishment that seems irrationally interested in persecuting her journalist husband.
Catch up on previous episodes here.
PJ tells us what happens next…
Hellmarsh, September 7, 2024
It was more than a week later before I got to see Mike again. I had to go to Belmarsh Prison, which is in Woolwich — on the eastern side of London close to the Thames on the south side of the river.
And everything about Belmarsh is so different from the Savoy Hotel that you’d think you’re on a different planet despite the fact that it’s only a little more than nine miles away as the crow flies.
I took a cab, and when I got out it was raining, of course. There were lots and lots of women coming in and out of the place as I got there. Three-quarters of them had headscarves on, and almost all of them gave me ugly looks.
I could tell why. I had my fancy trenchcoat and Louboutins on, for a couple of reasons, and that marked me as of a different class.
Which seemed so completely foreign to me. I mean, yeah — I grew up as a rich kid, but we were “new” money in San Francisco, and most of the kids I went to school with were “old” money. So I always thought of myself as more middle class even though we had lots of stuff. And then I went to college on an athletic scholarship; most of my teammates on the track and field team at UCLA were working class if they weren’t foreign kids, and none of my friends outside of the track team were rich.
Then I went to work at the Secret Service, and that was as middle class as you could get.
But in America, everybody thinks they’re middle class even if they’re not. I was starting to realize that wasn’t how it went in the UK.
These women saw my long blonde hair done up in a high ponytail, with my big diamond wedding ring and dangling earrings and expensive clothes and shoes, and they immediately hated me. I could feel it in a way you’d almost never feel it back in the States. If I had on the stuff I was wearing in a poor neighborhood in San Francisco, I’d still much more likely get a compliment about my jacket or my shoes than I would a dirty look.
Of course, these were prisoners’ wives. So was I. I guess they should have been more empathetic and maybe I should have as well.
Instead, I just steeled myself behind my big sunglasses and made my way into the visitors’ processing area. I checked in, was fingerprinted and photographed in a line with all the other visitors, and, after an entirely stupid bit of rigamarole, handed over a bag of books, pens, and writing paper the guards said would be given to Mike after I left.
Then I was x-rayed and sniffed by a narcotics dog. Following that, they made me deposit my purse and all my belongings in a glass-front locker in the processing center.
At that point we were escorted into the prison itself, and the next stop was another queue. I gave my name and Mike’s name, and that was checked against a printout they’d compiled at the processing place.
Finally, the dour prison guard — she was barely five feet tall but had to weigh 200 pounds, which made me wonder what the physical standards for guards at Britain’s most notorious prison were — gave me a tag on a lanyard reading “HM Prison Belmarsh—Social Visitor 2149” on it and ordered me to pick a blue chair at table C-7.
Which was one of about 40 beat-up coffee tables surrounded by beat-up upholstered chairs that had been screwed into the floor of an area that looked like it might have been a basketball court at some point.
So I sat in a beat-up blue chair that smelled like sweat, crossed my legs in as ladylike a fashion as I could, looked around at the glass globes on the ceiling that recorded every little thing that went on, and waited.
And waited.
I noticed that there were a couple of dozen other visitors, most of them women, most of them Muslims in headscarves. Meeting eyes with them was mostly an unpleasant experience; all of them were angry and hateful.
Maybe that’s not directed toward me, I thought. After all, these were all wives and mothers who probably depended on the men they were coming to see, and with those men in prison their lives were desperate and awful. Their hostility was almost certainly directed at the world; I was just part of it.
It didn’t hit me right away that I was in exactly the same boat they were. I was still feeling like Mike’s situation was a mistake that would magically get rectified soon, even though intellectually I knew better.
And then one of them pointed at me and said something in a language I couldn’t understand.
Others laughed.
“Excuse me?” I said, in a not-particularly-friendly tone.
A guard came over and told me it was best to ignore her.
“But what did she say?” I asked him.
“Nothing pleasant, mam.”
“But she gets to say it and I have to just accept that? Why aren’t you telling her to shut up?”
“Our policy is to de-escalate, mam.”
So I glared at the woman.
“She knows she can get away with insulting me because nobody here will do anything about it. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The guard didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Finally, they brought out the prisoners, all wearing gray track suits and slip-on sneakers. Mike was probably four inches taller than the next tallest prisoner, but he looked pale.
I practically attacked him after he was led to table C-7 and unshackled. I didn’t care if it made a scene among those nasty women. I threw my arms around Mike and gave him the wettest kiss I could. He eagerly reciprocated, but not for long before he had me sit back down.
“I have to sit in the red chair,” he said. “That’s what the rules say.”
“Whatever,” I said. “How much sun do they let you have?”
“Why? Are you noticing my new Prison Pale suntan?”
“It doesn’t look very healthy.”
“Well, since I got arrested the only time I was outside was getting out of the prison bus that dropped me here.”
“Wait, you don’t get an hour in the exercise yard or something?”
“Not as a national security remand I don’t. By the way, thanks for the books! I blew through Kim and Captains Courageous and now I’m reading The Screwtape Letters. I’d forgotten how good all this stuff was, and I haven’t had time to just read in forever.”
“I’ll get you some more. In fact, on this trip I got you a couple of Brad Thor novels, a biography of Margaret Thatcher, and The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. I also got you Cross Stitch by Diane Gabaldon, but they won’t let me give it to you.”
He gave me a confused look.
“It’s the first book in the Outlander series. They call it Cross Stitch in the UK but it’s Outlander in America.”
“Hmm.”
I figured it kind of fit us, you know, lovers prevented from being together by a cruel set of circumstances. So I screwed up and inscribed something about that, and they told me that was forbidden.”
“Oh, well,” he said. “It’s OK. You can give it to me when I get out.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“Anyway, you’re a hell of a good jailbird’s wife.”
I laughed, and then I asked him how it was, and he smiled.
“I’m not an expert on prison conditions, but I don’t think this place rates as tough as, say, Rikers Island or Alcatraz. They call this place Hellmarsh, but so far I’m not that impressed. So there’s that.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“But is it OK? Can you handle it?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t really think my personality meshes quite so well with my cellmate.”
“Oh, no. What’s his story?”
“He’s doing 20 years as a serial child molester. Crazy as a loon. I’m told he stabbed his last cellmate with a toothbrush he’d filed down to a point.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m pretty sure I can handle him. He’s not a particularly physically imposing fella. But he runs his mouth a lot, and it’s distracting from my reading.”
“Is that it?”
“Well, there’s a jihadist gang in here and they essentially run the place. They know who I am and I gather that I’m not very popular. So I try to keep to myself.”
He saw me furrowing my brow and straightened up a little.
“Look,” he said, “I can handle this. I’m more worried about you, but to look at you it seems like you’re pretty squared away. You look terrific!”
“I’m doing a Sky News in-studio hit after this. That’s why I’m all dressed up.”
“Good girl. Honestly, just seeing you in those shoes has made my month. They make you as tall as me!”
“They’re torture on my feet and they were disgustingly expensive, but I fell in love with them just the same.”
“I can believe it. So, Sky News, huh?”
“It’s the fourth time this week I’m on TV. Did Fox News two days ago, ANN yesterday, UK News last night. I’m supposed to go on the BBC on Monday. Plus Colby has me doing podcast hits on Zoom for the Holman site every couple of days.”
“Talking about me? Really?”
“Yeah. Apparently I’m good at this. At least, Brackett thinks I’m effective.”
“You might be. You know, they still haven’t charged me. Another few days and they might just kick me and we’ll go home and it’ll be all your doing.”
I knew, from Brackett and from the one contact at the Embassy who’d actually been willing to do something on Mike’s case, that there was no chance of Mike going home in a few days.
But I’d resolved not to say or do anything that would lessen his morale. I could see in his eyes that he was dealing with a lot at that point.
“Hope so!” I said cheerfully. That earned me a smile. Well, a bigger smile. Mike was positively gleeful that I was there, and it was making my heart pound in my chest.
“Hey, are you hungry?” I asked him. “I was going to bring you a bunch of food, but they tell me we can’t bring food into the prison. But I can hit the snack bar for you!”
“That would be awesome,” he said. “I’d love a sandwich.”
So I waited in line, seemingly forever, and ended up getting Mike a cheese-and-pickle sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a muffin. And a Coke.
I apologized for not being able to get him anything better than that, but he smiled at me and then wolfed everything down while I watched.
“You were really hungry, huh?” I said a few seconds later when he’d finished.
“Still am. All we get around here is porridge for breakfast, soup for lunch, and beans and toast for dinner.”
“Surprised you don’t have food fights in the dining room.”
“There’s no dining room. They shove your plate through a hole in your cell door.”
“Yikes.”
“I’m good with it. Like I said, I’m not that popular with the cool kids here.”
I sighed.
“I can go back and get you something else. Do you want me to?”
“No, PJ. Seeing you is a lot more important than eating. Seriously.”
That hit me harder than I thought, and I could feel a crying spell coming on.
“Uh oh,” he said. “Hey, sweetie, don’t cry. You’ll mess up your TV makeup!”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing and weeping at the same time.
“Hey — we’re going to get out of this. I promise. And we’ll go home and start living that great life we’ve talked about. This is just a hiccup, PJ. That’s all it is.”
I nodded, eyes closed, a smile forced onto my face even though I felt like I would implode any second.
But I didn’t. And do you know what kept that from happening?
Rage. That was it. As I looked at Mike, at what they’d done to him in a little more than a week, it made me so angry that the tears basically dried up in a flash.
“We are gonna get you out of here,” I said. “I swear it.”
But I had no idea how.
“Listen, I understand that my rhetoric might be a little hot,” I said, “and if it comes off that way I apologize. I’m trying not to rant, but I just came from seeing Mike earlier today, and honestly I’m still pretty emotional.”
“I think you’re doing fine,” Julian Head, whose early-prime show on the BBC was the highest-rated of all the British talk-fests. “But what do you say to those who would respond that consorting with Robby Thomason is the kind of irresponsible behavior that puts the peace at risk?”
“Consorting?”
“Well, what would you call it, Mrs. Holman?”
“I’d answer it this way, and I apologize for repeating what I’ve said on other shows, but it’s my story and I’m sticking to it: Mike has not committed an act of terrorism. He committed an act of journalism. And what terrorizes me is the idea that your government doesn’t seem to know the difference.”
“Yes, I’ve heard you say it. It’s a very good line.”
“Well, let me go a little further, and I would bring this home for you. After all, earlier this year you interviewed Tariq Al-Masjid, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“That was a pretty big score, journalistically. Imam Al-Masjid has been an inspiration for several different terrorist groups and he’s one of the FBI’s most wanted international criminals, right?”
“I see where you’re going.”
“I’m not playing gotcha here, OK? From the standpoint of the media business, you’re going to interview somebody like that if you can.”
“Yes, but it was a contentious interview.”
“And?”
“The interview between Mike Holman and Robby Thomason was not very contentious, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Well, you don’t really equate Robby Thomason with Tariq Al-Masjid, do you?”
“Britain’s streets are in turmoil because of Thomason. Wouldn’t you agree the two have a similar effect?”
“Wow.”
“Mrs. Holman, what is difficult to understand about the comparison?”
“Just yesterday, there was a protest in Trafalgar Square with pro-Hamas demonstrators who defaced the statue, which makes at least a half-dozen times that has happened. To my mind, that’s public vandalism and it makes the demonstration disorderly. Not to mention they were holding signs advocating killing Israelis and driving them into the sea. It seems like that’s a violation of hate-crime laws you have here.”
“And you’re upset that those demonstrators weren’t arrested.”
“It’s not a question of me being upset. I think a whole lot of British citizens are furious about that, which is why Thomason has such a following. If he didn’t, nobody would care about protests or marches that he puts on.”
“But that’s why he’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, OK, but what I think you’re missing is that by acceding to the idea that Thomason is a terrorist, you’re accusing hundreds of thousands — actually, I guess it’s millions — of your fellow Brits of being terrorists along with him.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite wrong.”
“Well, fair enough, but why not examine all of this? My husband didn’t simply accept everything Thomason said. I thought it was a very good conversation. There was some disagreement, and some agreement.”
“But then Thomason said there would be a demonstration in front of Number 10, and that’s a threat to the prime minister.”
“Oh, come on. Aren’t there protests in front of the Prime Minister’s residence all the time? The Just Stop Oil people had one there last year. And actually, I’d say those guys are far bigger terrorists than Robby Thomason and certainly bigger than my husband. They throw tomato soup on Van Gogh paintings and glue themselves to roadways to stop traffic, for crying out loud.”
“But with the temperature on the streets of Britain, it’s a very different thing, isn’t it?”
“So it’s OK for climate change protesters and pro-Hamas people to block traffic and destroy public works of art, but not OK for ordinary folks to engage in far-less destructive behavior?”
“Again, it isn’t valid to equate them.”
“All right, fine. I don’t understand why it seems like there’s a deliberate refusal to understand the concerns that created Robby Thomason in the first place, and until that changes, I guess you’ll never reach a consensus on those issues.
“But I’m not Robby Thomason’s wife. I’m Mike Holman’s wife. And it turns out that, as I’m here in England with him, I actually have a pretty good window into his mentality and plans.”
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, mam.”
“Well, as I’ve been told, the charge of conspiring to commit a terrorist act goes like this: it’s an offense to agree with other people to commit an act of terrorism, even if the act itself is not carried out, all right? The prosecution has to prove that the defendant intended to facilitate a terrorist act or was aware of the potential for a terrorist act to occur as a result of that agreement.”
“That is the law.”
“You know what Mike’s intent was after interviewing Robby Thomason? It was to go and see Buckingham Palace, then go down to Dorset where his family came from. And then to go home! Exactly where’s the benefit to Mike in having a protest turn into a riot in London when he’s all the way across the ocean? Don’t you think that’s ridiculous?”
“But he should have recognized the potential for a terrorist act to happen with those people in such close proximity to the P.M.”
“I can’t imagine a judge or a jury would see it that way. If the British terrorism law covers a media interview of all things, I have no idea where it stops. I don’t think you have enough jail cells to house all the terrorists you’re about to create.”
Head was pleasant, but I felt like I was talking to a wall. It was like there was a parallel reality to mine which all “good” British had to subscribe to, and Julian Head — supposedly the best interviewer on British TV — had no ability to step out of it.
After the interview ended, Brackett and Simon both told me I’d done a great job. But we all agreed that I hadn’t penetrated very far.
At least, not to help Mike.
But Jenny Wilson, whom I’d had as a publicist for a brief time after I’d resigned from the Secret Service and turned whistleblower, texted me while I was in the car coming home from the interview, and she said there were people reaching out to her about the idea of me becoming a cable news talking head.
That gave me a headache.
OK, fine, I have a look that might be marketable on TV. And I’d gotten pretty good doing those interviews, I guess.
Know how much interest I have in being a “media personality?”
Zero. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Nil.
I like doing camera work for Mike, because that’s simple and it’s substantive. Are the images clear? Is the sound audible? I can measure performance on that really easily, and I can perfect it.
Go on TV as an on-air personality, and it’s more important to be controversial, or “engaging,” than to be right. And you get famous before you get rich.
It’s my experience that fame is a curse. After all, if Mike wasn’t famous, he definitely wouldn’t be rotting away in Hellmarsh, with me doing interviews with upper-class twits like Julian Head in a vain effort to convince people who hate his public persona to support springing him so we could go home.
Brackett knew that. But what he also knew was that Mike’s fame, and the influence it could generate on the British street, was the only thing that would potentially prevent those conspiracy charges from going forward.
And I didn’t think it was working.
My barometer for this was that even Neville Savage hadn’t stepped forward. Nor was he taking my calls.
So after the BBC interview, I declined Simon’s offer of dinner — which was a really good offer, I’ve got to tell you — to head back to that room at the Savoy, where we were running up a hotel bill for the ages.
I took that up with Tom when I got back to the room and saw that I’d gotten an email from him asking for a progress report. I started the call expressing concern that the company picking up the bill for the room and my other expenses was just too much. He wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re getting so much traffic off our daily reports on Mike and the video you’re doing from there that it’s paying for itself,” he said.
“Yeah, but what is this coming to? Like three grand a day?”
“With expenses, more like thirty-five hundred.”
“Tom! That’s way, way too much. Especially since we’re almost certainly going to be weeks and months with this nightmare.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to throw you out of the hotel. If that’s what it costs, it’s what it costs.”
“That’s really sweet, but I’m going to scale it down. Maybe I’ll rent an apartment or something close to Hellmarsh.”
“Hellmarsh?”
“Mike says that’s what the prisoners call it.”
Tom didn’t say anything. Or maybe he muted his phone. Mike says that’s what he’ll do when he wants do drop an F-bomb or something.
“Tom, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Is that safe? What are the neighborhoods nearby like?”
“They’re mostly working-class, and they’re, umm…”
“Multicultural.”
“I guess, but I’d still feel better being close. Tomorrow I’m going to start trying to find something, and I’ll check out of the Savoy when I do. It’ll hurt, though. This place is sensational.”
“Take your time, doll. There’s no rush. We aren’t going to run out of money just yet.”
“Thanks, Tom. You’re a sweetheart.”
He asked me how Mike was doing. I didn’t lie.
“He put on a very brave face,” I said, “but he’s been locked up a little more than a week and he’s pale as can be. He’s noticeably lost weight and it sounds like the food isn’t really edible there. And his cellmate is a child molester who stabs people. Oh, plus the prison is run by a gang of jihadists who hate him.”
“Holy shit.”
“I’m a little frantic, Tom. I don’t know how we’re going to stick this out if it’s going to take weeks, much less months or years.”
“Hang in there, PJ. He needs you to be strong for him.”
“How’s the GoFundMe for his legal defense going?”
“It isn’t. They shut it down. Now it’s a GiveSendGo. But it’s just north of a hundred thousand.”
“That’s not terrible.”
“Probably would be more but everybody knows Pierce is going to pick up the tab.”
“I guess. I talked to him and he’s really eager to help.”
“Well, yeah. That think tank he and Mike are working on is a big deal. Pierce is talking about dropping a billion dollars in to get it started.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah. We had a Zoom call with the Holman Media folks about it on Friday. Megan is working on the initial release and with Mike out of commission Pierce asked me to help get it staffed up. I’m talking to Tulsi Gabbard and Elon next week about joining the board.”
“Pierce talked a little about it. I didn’t realize how big a thing it is.”
“Lots of great stuff out there, PJ. We just have to get through this crisis and it gets exciting from there on.”
I wanted to believe him.
But when we ended the call I found myself alone, once again, in the hotel room that was supposed to be the base camp for our honeymoon.
And I spent that night going through tissue paper and looking at rental websites, trying to find a house or an apartment in southeast London that would serve as a new home for Mike’s jailbird wife.
The Old Bailey, September 13, 2024
To nobody’s surprise but Mike’s, he was, in fact, charged with conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.
So was Robby Thomason, but Thomason was in Cyprus. They put a warrant out for his arrest, though there was a good deal of buzz that Thomason was never coming back to the UK.
The Guardian ran a story on that subject, calling Thomason’s planned demonstration in front of Number 10 Downing Street a “foiled terrorist attack.” Tom sent me an email saying he was getting an attorney for Mike and we were going to sue the paper for libel.
I didn’t think that was going to go anywhere, but I couldn’t disagree with him. Why not?
Tom was telling me the Guardian story got picked up by conservative media in the US and all hell broke loose. It was finally setting in back home that this was a real thing and the anger was palpable online.
And the paper had to shut down the comments under that story at their website because the ratio from ticked-off readers on both sides of the Atlantic was off the charts. They ended up shutting down their comments section on the whole website, because the readers were flaming them everywhere.
Dan Bongino and Glenn Beck, immediately followed by a host of conservative talkers and podcasters and other influencers, started to push a boycott of everything British until Mike was set free. Pierce pulled Sentinel Holdings’ sponsorship of the English Premiere League, which was a large amount of money. Stormer was in America when this happened, and he had planned to address both houses of Congress, but the House rescinded their invitation in protest of Mike’s charges.
Trumbull did meet with him, despite lots of people demanding that he not do it. But in the press conference after the meeting, he dropped a bomb on him.
“I like Piers,” he said. “Nice guy, really. But I’m going to win this election, and when I do I’m glad I’ll be protected. Because if not, seems like Piers has a way of arresting people who say things he doesn’t like and maybe that could be me at some point. I think he ought to work on that a little, because that’s not how it works in a free country.”
The look on Stormer’s face was one of total horror, and the papers in the UK were on fire about it.
That was the crazy aftermath when the news hit, on a Wednesday afternoon, that Mike was going to be charged as a terrorist.
That day, when we got notice of the charges being brought, we also found out who the judge would be.
And that was … not good news.
Tawfiq Ramesh Choudhury had been on the bench for a decade, and in that time he’d earned a reputation as England’s wackiest judge. Choudhury had sentenced a man who posted a meme saying “Who the F**k Is Allah?” on his Facebook profile to twenty months in prison because the meme, which got nine likes and one share in front of the man’s 700 Facebook friends, would “likely inspire violence or other inflammatory actions, in light of the current unrest.”
That happened three weeks before Mike’s case landed on his docket.
A month before that, Choudhury had let another man off with no jail time after he’d been found with over 5,000 kiddie porn images on his computer. Choudhury told the man he needed to “get out and meet more people your age.”
Brackett was about as reserved a lawyer as I’d ever seen. He was pretty much unflappable. But I was in the waiting room at his law office when the case listings went to his email, and he called me in just after that, visibly shaken.
And when he told me about Choudhury, I absolutely lost it.
I did manage not to curse, which I guess I’m a little proud of, but I really unloaded on Brackett. “Can’t you do something about this? This guy is not going to give us a fair trial! What kind of Third World stuff is going on here?”
He didn’t have an answer for me. What was he going to say? This wasn’t his idea or his choice, and he was just as upset as I was.
But he had to cut me short because a call came in from the Crown Prosecutor, and he had to ask me to head back to the waiting room.
And while I was there I could hear a couple of the other lawyers talking in the little conference room. They’d overheard me blowing my stack in Brackett’s office.
“Is she having the painters in?” one of them was asking the others. I didn’t find out until later that was an idiom for me having my period.
“No, mate. Holman drew Judge Choudhury.”
“Bloody hell! That’s some hard cheese. No wonder she’s gone barmy. Her man is in Barney Rubble.”
I could barely understand it, but I picked up enough. And it was the wrong thing for me to hear.
But Brackett called me back into his office and said he had good news.
“Please tell me something,” I said, “because I’m about to lose it.”
“They’re telling me they would agree to bail,” he said.
“Oh, thank God.”
“Yes, PJ,” he said, holding up his hands, “but the conditions will be quite unlikely to meet with your approval.”
“And what are those?”
“Obviously he can’t leave the country. He’ll have to wear an ankle monitor. And he won’t be allowed to make public speeches or writings of any kind.”
“You mean like podcasts? And web posts?” I asked incredulously.
“That’s correct, ma’am. Furthermore, neither he nor anyone in his control would be allowed to talk about the trial.”
“That would be me, and all the Holman Media people back in the States?”
“Yes, ma’am. And other family members and business associates.”
I assumed that would probably include Pierce, who would go utterly ballistic over it as a matter of principle.
“What the…”
“I’ve had to do some hard negotiating just to get this far.”
“Does Mike know about this?”
“I haven’t been able to see him since we began the bail negotiations.”
“He’s going to reject that. And honestly, I think he should.”
I’d been doing some reading on cases like this in British courts, and I knew that we were in for a year, or more, before this would even get to a trial. And it could be months before the case got decided once the trial began.
I couldn’t even imagine Mike behind bars that long. But being stuck in the UK having to wear an ankle monitor and being unable to work as a journalist?
He was going to say no. I knew he would.
Brackett shrugged.
“PJ, at least you’ll be together. And I want to prepare you for the eventuality, that I fear is increasingly likely, that this time might be the last you’ll be able to spend with him for several years.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe it. Impossible.”
But I did believe it.
We’d caught the worst judge at the worst time in modern British history for a politicized case the UK media was attempting to turn into the Trial of the Century. That meant the stakes for Stormer’s government were through the roof and it was less and less likely they could afford to back down.
Did it matter that this was an utterly, totally absurd charge no respectable judicial system would give the time of day to?
Apparently not.
It struck me that all the work I’d done trying to head this off for Mike had been in vain.
I had failed.
I shut my eyes and sighed.
“Just because Mike wouldn’t be able to speak,” said Brackett, “that doesn’t mean others won’t do so. He’s begun to develop a strong following.”
“My visa is going to run out,” I blurted out.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s a tourist visa. It’s good for six months. He’ll still be awaiting trial. He’ll still be in Belmarsh, and I’ll have to go home.”
“We can deal with that,” he said.
“No, this is going to go on and I’m going to have to leave the country, and then they won’t let me back in, and Mike is going to be all alone here. They’re going to do this to us. It’s revenge for him destroying Bridgetson.”
Lady Phillipa had resigned as Secretary of State for Education a few days earlier. She had tried to pawn off the controversy about her interview as the product of being crossed up by The Terrorist Mike Holman; nobody bought it and they were laughing at her. She was supposed to be a rising star in the Labour Party and now she was ruined.
There had to be consequences for that, and now there were. Add giving legitimacy to Robby Thomason to the pile and they had to get Mike for that.
It struck me that taking Mike out of the public discussion for the next year, at least, wasn’t too bad for Pamela Farris, either, and especially given that she was up against Trumbull in the November election less than two months away.
And now it started to make sense that the U.S. Embassy in London, which damn sure ought to be raising absolute hell about a prominent American journalist wasting away in a hellhole for doing his job, couldn’t care less.
Mike had for a couple of years absolutely roasted Tory Blankenship, the Secretary of State in the Deadhorse administration, over the latter’s connections to a Chinese pharmaceutical company that owned three warehouses in California that were discovered to be storing samples of the Ebola virus, COVID-19, and a couple of other serious biotoxins. Blankenship’s emails, which later went public after Judicial Watch and Holman Media managed to get them released through FOIA requests, were full of friendly discussions with the CEO of the company and the State Department had granted visas to several individuals affiliated with the company who were also Chinese spies.
Blankenship also had taken a $4 million consulting fee from the company just before being named as Deadhorse’s Secretary of State, and that was known at the time. The Republicans in the Senate had tried to filibuster his nomination, but nine of them wouldn’t sign on to the filibuster and Blankenship was confirmed after a 50–50 vote. Farris, the vice president, made the deciding vote to confirm him.
So to an unknown extent it was quite possible the momentum for taking Mike out might actually have originated on the other side of the pond. I hadn’t appreciated that until just then.
There wasn’t much else I could do at Brackett’s office and I had a lot to do, so I got out of his hair.
And as I was walking from Brackett’s office to the Underground station that would take me to the hotel, I called Mike’s mom.
She and I had become big texting partners since all this had descended on us. She said she’d rather text about it because it was making her too emotional.
Because, among other things, she had broken up with her fiancé over it.
George had begged off of going to our wedding. He said there would be too many fascists there. Yes, that was George. He was a retired Wall Street guy who had a Bernie Sanders sticker on his Mercedes, and Mike’s mom met him at The Villages, where she lived. She was taking golf lessons, and George was her instructor.
Mike’s mom had fallen for the only Bernie Bro in The Villages. I could have told you it wouldn’t work out.
But she shrugged off his jerk move at the wedding. She couldn’t shrug off his initial reaction to Mike’s arrest.
“I knew he was no good,” he said.
And she walked. On the spot. He chased after her begging her to accept his apology and claiming he didn’t mean it, but really. How was she supposed to believe him? He’d boycotted the wedding. None of it was subtle.
Anyway, Emily Holman was a wreck, but she was a proud wreck and she didn’t want to get all blubbery over the phone. So we texted.
And that was fine. But not this time.
She answered on the first ring, even though it was barely 8 a.m. back home.
“Something has happened,” she said instead of hello. At least she sounds strong, I thought.
“I think I needed to call you about this,” I said.
“OK,” she sighed. “What do we have?”
“Well, there’s some movement on getting him bail. But the conditions are atrocious.”
“How bad?”
“They won’t let him speak or write anything for public consumption. He can’t leave the country. He’s got to wear an ankle monitor. None of us can speak publicly about the trial. Not me, not you, not anybody at Holman Media.”
“Oh, God. He isn’t agreeing to that, is he?”
“I don’t know. Barrister Brackett thinks he should.”
“Well, Barrister Brackett seems not to appreciate that his fee will have to get paid from an empty bank account if Mike can’t work.”
“Here’s why he thinks we should take the bail deal: we drew an absolutely awful judge.”
“Oh, no.”
“Tawfiq Ramesh Choudhury,” I said, slowly and dramatically.
“Well, just because…”
“Emily, he’s not the worst judge because he’s Pakistani. He’s the worst judge because he’s been basically hanging people for social media posts and other things like that.”
“Which this pretty much is.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, PJ. I don’t know that I can…”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if he does get out on bail, I think you should come here and see him.”
“I want to. But PJ, I don’t know if I’m strong enough. This whole thing; I’m so weak right now I’m struggling to get out of bed.”
“Well, did you see the doctor?”
“I go in for an EKG tomorrow.”
“Oh, Emily. And you’re all alone.”
“My neighbor Susie checks on me. I’ll be all right.”
I didn’t fall apart then.
But a little while later when I talked to Mom, I did. Basically as soon as she answered the phone I just poured it out on her. I was pathetic; I freely admit it.
“Now I really am coming to see you,” she said as I started bawling.
“I don’t know why I’m not handling this better,” I gurgled. “I’ve never been this emotional before, but I’m back and forth between anger and depression, and I can’t handle it. Mom, what am I going to do?”
“First of all, you’re going to have the biggest cry of your life alone in that hotel room tonight. And when that’s over, you will pull yourself together and fight.”
“Okay.”
“Look, honey, this is God testing you because you and Mike are meant for something big. You know I’ve never been all that religious, but I’m at St. Dominic’s every day now praying for you and Mike. And Father Thomas is sure of this — something important is coming.”
“Well, that would make a little sense of this, but Mom. Really? It’s so absurd!”
“Father Thomas was telling me about St. Justin, who was a Greek philosopher who wrote some of the most persuasive defenses of Christian morality in the early days of the religion. There are parallels to Mike’s situation in St. Justin’s story; it’s helped me to process this.”
That Mom was becoming a Catholic, and seemingly a devout one, had to be a burr in the saddle of The Great Peter Chang, who said religion was a scam for rubes. Even in my depressed state, I had to chuckle about that.
“All right,” she said, “there’s a British Airways flight leaving here at 3:30 and it’ll get to Heathrow tomorrow morning at 10. I’m booking it.”
“Mom, what’s that going to cost?”
“Thirteen thousand dollars for first class.”
“Oh, no. You can’t do that.”
“Well, honey, I’m not going to spend 11 hours in coach. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Heathrow Airport, September 14, 2024
My phone rang at the crack of dawn. I was already up. At that point, a full night’s sleep was a distant memory, and I’d been staring at the ceiling for at least a couple of hours since the last little patch of shut-eye had ended.
I was a bit surprised that it was Pierce on the other end of the line.
“Good grief,” I said as I answered the call. “What time is it where you are?”
“It’s like 1:15 in the morning. No big deal.”
“Pierce, don’t you sleep?”
“I have too much going on right now to sleep. I’ll get a few winks later. Look, I’m calling because I’m going to pitch in and help if you’ll let me.”
“Sure, OK. Like what do you have in mind?”
“Well, I talked to Tom earlier. He said you’re getting out of the hotel and finding a place closer to Belmarsh. Is that right?”
“Yeah, I guess. What little I’ve been able to see, looking at apartments and things online, I’m not all that impressed by.”
“You want me to help?”
“I’d love that.”
“Great! I bought you a house. It’s in Abbey Wood. It’s like exactly a kilometer away from the prison.”
“Pierce, you already gave us a house. You’re giving us another one?”
“Hey, I’m trying to help.”
“You know what? You’re right. I’m going to stop talking and say thank you.”
“Well, maybe don’t thank me too much. I’m buying this joint basically sight unseen and from the pics of the place online, I’m … not sure it’s what you’re used to.”
“I totally get it. I’ve been looking on Zillow, or at least the English equivalent of it, and this part of town we’re talking about is kinda like an architectural desert.”
“Well, this thing is basically a dump with a fresh coat of paint on it, but it’s pretty big. It’s a four-bedroom place and it’s three stories. I think it’s going to be somewhat livable, and we can move you in on Saturday. The owner is willing to give us the keys in advance of the sale.”
“I’m just amazed at how fast you work.”
“I have my reasons for doing this. Just roll with it. OK, what’s your plan for today? I know you have court tomorrow with this stupid terror charge.”
“Well, Mom is flying in and her plane lands at Heathrow at ten, and then I was figuring we’d get some lunch in her and then this afternoon she’s coming with me and the lawyer to go to see Mike at Belmarsh to talk about the bail conditions.”
“Tell you what — let me send a car for you. Take you to the airport and then we’ll handle lunch and the prison visit, and then you can get Mom to the hotel without worry about her bags too much.”
“That works for me. She tends not to pack light.”
“Good. OK, my guy will be in the lobby at nine to take you to Heathrow, and I’ll see you around noon your time.”
“Wait. You said it was 1:15 where you are. You’re coming here?”
“No. But you’ll see me all the same.”
I was a little fuzzy, but then it dawned on me that he was talking about a Zoom call.
And later, when I went down to the lobby, I understood what was going on.
“Mrs. Holman?” said a burly linebacker-looking guy in a suit I recognized from what a lot of my old Secret Service colleagues would wear, in an accent somewhere between cockney and not.
“That’s me! Are you my tour guide for today?”
“That I am, ma’am. I’m Colin, with Sentinel Network Security. Would you come with me, please?”
“I’m all yours,” I said, in as flirty a tone as I could muster. Colin seemed friendly enough, and he definitely seemed like a good ally in a fight, so I figured I’d get on his good side.
And it worked, because he gave me a cute one-eyebrow-raised grin in return.
But he barely had five words to say on the car ride to Heathrow. And when I gave him a hard time about that and asked him if he was the strong, silent type, he just looked at me in the rear-view mirror and smiled and nodded.
“I guess that’s OK,” I said. “You don’t mind if I take a quick nap, do you? I don’t sleep too much at night lately.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” he said, and turned down the radio for me.
So I got that nap. Thanks to Colin. And then I met Mom in the baggage claim, and my jaw dropped when she had no less than six giant suitcases with her.
“Not getting any better at packing light, I see.”
“It’s a long story,” she said. “We’ll have time to talk about it later.”
Colin then drove us to a London landmark, which was the rounded building at 30 St. Mary Axe that the locals call The Gherkin. That’s where the London offices of Sentinel Network Security were. He rode with us in the elevator, Mom’s suitcases on a dolly next to him, and then he passed us off to Claudia Ferrand, who ran the office.
Claudia was French. She was about Mom’s age. She looked like Ann-Margaret. Her accent was English upper class, and when I asked her about it, she said she’d gone to public school in England.
But she didn’t want to chit-chat for long, because she was hustling us into the conference room, which had been set up as a secure facility. Mom and I had to give up our cell phones before we went in.
And when we sat down in those chairs, three guys in suits brought us a sizable feast from the restaurant on the building’s ground floor — fried seafood, some little sandwiches, this amazing bacon, egg, and tomato salad. I hadn’t really been eating much of late and boy did I recover my appetite. Mom was starving, too, though I could tell the jet lag was officially kicking her butt. She didn’t have a lot to say.
Just as we were finishing up, the big screen in the conference room lit up and there was Pierce.
“Hey, y’all. Lunch any good?”
“Amazing, Pierce. Thanks!”
“Howdy, Mrs. Chang. It’s great to see you again!”
“You too, Pierce,” Mom said. “Thanks for all your help with, y’know, this.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started. Which is why we’re doing all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. I had to get you out of that hotel, because there is zero secure communication at that place.”
My eyes grew big.
“Pierce, you don’t think they’ve bugged the room, do you?”
“Psh. I know they bugged the room. Not only that, they took your phone when Mike got arrested so they could force you to use the room phone and then they could tap into your calls.”
“OK. I’ve only been using the cell you gave me since it came.”
“Good girl. I don’t think you’ve compromised anything.”
“Well, I mean, I talked to the lawyer…”
“I’d be shocked if they don’t have his office bugged, too. Don’t worry about that.”
“Yeah, but the legal strategy, and…”
He was smiling, in a funny, but condescending sort of way.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m the naïve one here. I get it.”
“Honestly, sweetie, I wish I still had your faith in the system. It’s absolutely charming.”
I laughed. I could tell Mom was horrified. So could Pierce.
“Mrs. Chang…”
“Pierce, call me Mary, all right? I feel old enough today.”
“OK, fair enough,” he chuckled. “It’s just that I’ve been on the outlaw side of these ruling-class clowns for five or six years now, watching it get worse and worse, and what I’ve learned is there isn’t a base you can leave uncovered if you want to play the high-stakes game – because these guys don’t hold back.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’ve seen it.”
“I imagine you have.”
“So what’s the plan, Pierce?” I said. “I can’t see how this is a social call, you going through all this trouble.”
“Look, there are things I can’t tell you about what’s going to happen, even here. It’s much, much better, if it doesn’t go well, if you’re kept in the dark.”
“Not crazy about how that sounds,” I said.
“Are we talking about doing something illegal?” asked Mom.
“The kidnapping and unlawful arrest of Mike Holman by the British government is an illegal act,” he said. “Can we agree to that?”
“You know I’m with you there,” I said. “I’ve gone on every show I could to make that case.”
“All right. So we’re now faced with a rogue government that has committed what I would call an act of political violence, in clear contravention of its own laws, and is engaged in an ongoing violation of the human rights of a very prominent journalist. Can we agree on that?”
I looked at Mom. She shrugged and nodded.
“I mean, as a lawyer I could poke some holes in that from a technical perspective,” she said,“ but it’s fundamentally true. Sure.”
“So the solution to this problem isn’t going to be found in the law. If it would, none of this could have happened. Therefore the solution lies elsewhere.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“Pressure.”
“I thought that was what I was doing. It didn’t work even a little bit.”
Pierce smiled.
“Hang on,” he said. “The timing of you saying that was perfect.”
Just then the screen split and another face joined Pierce’s.
It was Neville Savage.
“Hi PJ,” he said. “And this must be the absolutely smashing, lovely Mrs. Mary Chang. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Mom was a closet fan of Neville’s. She brightened up immediately.
“Hello, Mr. Savage,” she said. “Or do I call you by an honorific…”
“Heavens, no. Neville will do nicely, my dear. But listen, before we go any further, PJ, I should say a couple of things to you. First, I apologize for not taking your calls for the last several days. There are several reasons, but the primary one is strategic — which is that by not involving myself in the case I’m now an objective observer independently outraged by this government’s illegitimate actions.”
“I figured it was something like that,” I said, “though at the time…”
“I’m so sorry. But you see, I’ve been under surveillance for some time now. I’m doing this from a secure facility we’ve constructed in my constituency, so we can finally have some privacy to talk honestly.”
I gave him a smile.
“Neville, why don’t you give us a quick rundown of what’s happening on your end?” said Pierce.
“Just so, and I was coming to that. My second point is to say that your interviews, PJ, have been utterly brilliant and I can assure you that the bulk of the British citizenry is firmly with you.”
“Well, that’s a relief, though so far I don’t think it means much.”
“We shall see,” said Neville. “Tomorrow will be the reading of the charges, at which the Crown prosecutor will offer Mike bail. Under what I understand will be simply awful conditions.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Exactly what are they again?” Pierce asked.
“Can’t leave the country, obviously,” I said. “He has to wear an ankle monitor. He’s got a total gag order not just on the trial but he can’t write or say anything publicly at all. And everybody associated with him is under a gag order about the trial.”
“Absurd,” said Neville.
“He’s going to reject that,” said Pierce.
“Oh, I’m sure he will.”
“No,” Pierce said. “I mean you need to make sure he rejects it.”
“I don’t disagree,” I said, “but tell me why so we’re on the same page.”
“Well, his reasoning is going to be up to Mike, but from my perspective this has to be a showing that he won’t be bullied by the Stormer government. That he’s in the right, and he will agree to nothing other than his exoneration and release.”
“The effect of that, politically,” said Neville, “will be pure gold.”
I looked at Mom.
“It’s not my place to say,” she said, “but can I at least suggest that if this government is as rogue as we think it is, to throw it in their face like this might invite some really awful consequences?”
“You mean like they’ll kill him in prison,” I said.
“I’d say it’s a low risk,” said Neville, “but not one I would fully put past them.”
“They will not kill him,” said Pierce. “I have that covered.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, all right then.”
“In any event,” said Neville, “Tomorrow will be a media spectacular, and the better we can fuel it the more helpful to the cause it will be.”
“Because?” I asked him.
“Because on Sunday the PM will be on hand at Parliament to answer questions. And at that time, with the entire nation watching, I shall come out of my shell.”
“We need something historic, Neville,” said Pierce.
“And you shall have it.”
“Meanwhile,” said Pierce, I’m having some really difficult problems with the unions at the five ports Sentinel Port Management operates in the UK. I’m really concerned that they’re going to strike.”
“Should that happen,” Neville said, “it would close the ports of London, Liverpool…”
“Immingham, Tees and Felixstowe,” said Pierce, finishing Neville’s sentence. “That would only leave two of the seven biggest ports in the UK functional. Not a good economic sign for a big trading nation like yours, Neville.”
“I should think not.”
“What’s the issue with the unions?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual. I think they’re just very cranky. But given the right change in circumstances, I’m sure we can restore harmony. Eventually.”
Pierce gave us a mischievous smile.
Mom had her eyebrows raised. She practiced a lot of international trade law, after all, with The Great Peter Chang as her main client. She was a partner at a big San Francisco firm rather than Chang Pan-Pacific’s in-house lawyer for a reason — Dad wanted her to have her own money in case something happened and his company went bankrupt, because in that event he’d have capital to start over.
But as part of that, she’d seen all kinds of maneuvering. I could tell this was on a level at least equal to anything she’d been exposed to.
“Oh, and that oil deal Stormer is negotiating with the Guyanese? Neville, I’m sorry to inform you that will be going on hold for some time to come.”
“I feared that might be the case.”
“So is the prospect of the oil deal with the new Venezuelan government,” said Pierce. “So sorry, old boy.”
“That’s life in the big city.”
“And if I were you I’d be very careful with whatever stocks you’re holding at the London exchange,” said Pierce. “Since Sentinel Network Security isn’t involved in the cybersecurity of the exchange I just don’t know what might happen next week.”
“Hopefully whatever happens will be both brief and mild.”
“I share your hopes, but I do think investors will want to be mindful of the risks inherent in an exchange protected by inferior security protocols.”
“So what’s the upshot here?” I asked. “Are you just going to dismantle the UK economy until they just cough Mike up?”
“He can’t do that,” said Mom under her breath.
“Actually,” I said, “I wouldn’t put it past him. Three months ago he took down the Venezuelan government in the middle of a war.”
“The aim here isn’t just to make them capitulate where Mike is concerned,” said Pierce. “It’s to teach these bastards a lesson they’ll never forget, which is that if you want to turn a free society into a dictatorship the price you’re going to pay is that somebody comes and takes your toys away.”
“And when there is an alternative presented to the people,” said Neville, “an alternative which promises freedom and prosperity and peace, ultimately they will choose wisely.”
“So you’re bringing down the government to get Mike out of jail,” I said.
“It’s a bit grandiose,” said Mom.
“Oh, Mrs. Chang, you have no idea,” Pierce said, laughing. “But come on. You’ve been to Liberty Point. You don’t think I can do grandiose?”
She smiled at him. And then she leaned in to me.
“I don’t know how anybody could keep up with him,” she whispered, “but he’s infectious, isn’t he?”
“He wears everybody out,” I whispered back. “I guess that’s how he gets everything he wants.”
So we wrapped it up a bit after that, and Colin carted Mom’s bags back down the elevator to the Land Rover, and then he took us to the Savoy.
And a little later he collected us again and drove us to Belmarsh.
I’d warned Mom that the other visitors were likely to be pretty unpleasant. Surprisingly, though, this time it was totally different. Most of the other visitors were English and better than half were men.
And we collected several smiles. One old lady, in a northern English accent so thick she could only barely make herself understood, managed to get across to us that my husband was a hero “standin’ up for those of us what’s got no voice, the Lord keep him.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I said. “Are you here visiting your son?”
“Aye,” she said. “’E’s a no-good villain he is, but I love him the same.”
The rigamarole they put us through to get into the visitors’ area was the same, but we ended up at another table thanks to Brackett, who was already there before we went in. This one was in the corner.
I hit the snack bar for Mike before he showed up, and it was smart that I did it. This time I managed to get him a chipped beef sandwich and three bags of potato chips, a couple of muffins and three candy bars.
And two Cokes.
When he showed up and saw the feast laid out for him, the bleak look on his face brightened considerably.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now, PJ,” he said.
And then he saw that Mom was with us.
“Wow, Mrs. Mary — you came all the way here?” he said.
“I’m the lawyer in the family. This is why you want one, right?” she deadpanned, winking at Brackett.
“Well, I certainly appreciate it, though I know you’re here for PJ. And I definitely thank you for that. It burns me up that they’ve put her through this.”
That earned him a hug from me, and then I made him sit down and eat.
Brackett explained the bail condition offer from the Crown Prosecution Service. He was about to suggest that Mike consider it. I jumped in.
“He isn’t accepting those conditions,” I said.
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“I’m positive,” I said, looking intently at Mike. “Those conditions make clear that this is about silencing him. And we aren’t letting them get off that easy. If they want to silence him they’re gonna have to do it by keeping him in here so the whole world can see what a disgrace they are.”
Mike raised his eyes at me. I nodded at him.
“Right, Mike?” I said.
“Damn right,” he said back, smiling and munching on a small handful of potato chips.
“In fact,” I said, “Mike is going to speak at that hearing and he’s going to light up the whole British police and court system for what they’ve done. They wanted to play the power game, well, let them see how it feels to have it played back in their faces.”
“Oh, my speech will be one for the ages,” Mike said. “I’ve already got some ideas.”
“I suggest we put those to paper now,” said Brackett, “because the odds you’ll be allowed to speak are slim and none.”
“Why?” asked Mom.
“Because it’s a terrorism case, Mrs. Chang. The Crown will object to any public speech by the defendant in such cases, and particularly in a bail hearing.”
The three of us exchanged scowls.
“But a written statement submitted to the record, they will accept.”
“Will anybody read it?” I asked.
Brackett looked at me.
“Ohhhh,” I said. “No, I don’t think it should be me.”
“I think it might be most effective if you read it, Thomas,” said Mom. “We’ll put it in your voice, and that way it’s not the angry complaint of a prisoner but the learned legal opinion of an officer of the court who’s shocked and outraged by the conduct of the government.”
“That’s quite good,” Brackett said.
So the four of us brainstormed a statement, which mostly came from Mike, and I wrote the whole thing down. By that point he’d polished off the junk-food extravaganza I’d brought him, though it didn’t make much of a dent in the gaunt, pallid appearance he’d presented.
It made me so sad. Two weeks! He looked like he’d aged 10 years. His hair was greasy, he hadn’t shaved, his track suit wasn’t clean and neither was he.
When we’d finished with a statement, we all thought was pretty good, I asked him how he was doing.
“OK, I guess. Considering. I don’t really know what the standard is.”
“I brought you more books. Kurt Schlichter FedExed me the whole Kelly Turnbull series to give to you, though I had to fight with him to get him not to sign any of them. He said he’ll do that for you when you get out.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, not quite as entertained as I thought he’d be.
“You’re sick of reading.”
“It’d be better if I was alone.”
“Oh, no. The pedo cellmate?”
“Actually, we’ve come to an understanding.”
“You have?”
“Yeah. He’s agreed not to try to stab me with a toothbrush filed down to a point, and I agreed not to separate his shoulder again.”
“Oh my God.”
Mike said the cellmate had come after him with the weapon, and he’d managed to grab his wrist with both hands and deflect his thrust. Then he’d kicked him in the ribs just under the arm that held the toothbrush while pulling on his wrist.
“Popped that shoulder right out,” he said.
“Did he have to go to the infirmary?”
“He wouldn’t do it. If he did, they’d know he went after another one of his cellmates and it would be solitary confinement for a good while. So he’s suffering in silence for now.”
“Something has to be done about this,” Mom said to Brackett. “Can’t you?”
“If you report it,” Mike told her, “it’s entirely possible they’ll charge me with assault.”
“He’s right,” said Brackett. “Following the bail hearing we will do what we can to get you transferred somewhere else.”
“Just in time for me to move into my new house down the street,” I said.
“Wait, you bought a house?” That was Mike.
“Pierce did. I move in tomorrow. I don’t think it’s great, but at least I’ll be close.”
He just smiled at me. I think — I know — that if Mom and Brackett hadn’t been there, I’d have gotten a big fat “I love you” out of him. But Mike wasn’t a particularly sappy guy, and I actually appreciated that about him.
“I know, honey,” I said, smiling back at him.
The post Aftershocks: <i>From Hellmarsh With Love</i> Ep. 6 appeared first on The American Spectator | USA News and Politics.
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