Chapter 3 - The Witness in the Booth
The kitchen door swung open with a muffled squeak, and Kayla stepped out holding a tray of dirty silverware. Her eyes were wide, her knuckles white around the rim of the stainless-steel tub.
She looked at me, then at the two soldiers standing by the door, and finally at Sheriff Harper, who was still trying to regain his balance against the Formica table.
"Nicole," Kayla whispered, her voice shaking so badly she could barely balance the tray. "They're at my house, aren't they?"
"Who's at your house, Kayla?" I asked, keeping my tone gentle.
"Mr. Cain’s men. They’ve been parked down by the creek since dawn." She set the tray down with a heavy clatter that made the salt shakers jump. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small, cracked memory card, holding it out toward me between two trembling fingers. "This is the rest of it. Not just the twelve seconds. The whole thing from two nights ago—and the audio from the back room when Wade Cain told your mom that if she didn't sign the lease transfer by Friday, her diner would burn down like her husband's brakes."
Sheriff Harper’s head snapped toward the waitress. "Kayla, you shut your mouth right now. You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know I'm sick of lying for you, Don!" Kayla shouted, her voice cracking with a sudden, fierce defiance that shocked even her. "I'm sick of watching you take envelopes behind the bait shop every first Tuesday of the month! I'm sick of watching them push people out of their homes just because they want to pave over the whole county with outlet malls!"
Travis lunged toward her.
He didn't make it two steps before Major Vance’s hand shot out, grabbing Travis by the heavy wool collar of his designer jacket and lifting him six inches off the floor before slamming him back against the brass-trimmed cigarette machine with a force that rattled every ashtray in the house.
"Hands where I can see them, civilian," Vance growled, his face inches from Travis’s nose.
"You can't touch me! I'll have your commission by sundown!" Travis choked out, his legs kicking uselessly against the baseboard.
"My commission is federal, Mr. Cain," Vance said coldly, releasing him with a sharp shove that sent Travis stumbling into a red vinyl booth. "And right now, you're interfering with an active counter-intelligence and anti-corruption sweep under Title 18 of the United States Code. One more twitch and we'll let the military police handle your detention."
I took the memory card from Kayla’s hand, slipping it into my shirt pocket before looking down at my mother.
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Evelyn Turner was staring at the small plastic square with tears tracking through the flour dust on her cheeks. "Don't do this, Nicole," she whispered again, her voice smaller than I had ever heard it. "We can't fight men like that. They own the judges. They own the banks."
"They don't own the Pentagon, Mom," I said, resting my hand over hers. "And they certainly don't own the Department of Justice."
