Hair-trigger Justice

Part 10: Lighting a Match

Sheriff Becky was working late at her Office when the call came in. Cory Jackson was on the line and sounded guarded, rattled. Her voice was steady but hushed, as though she was trying not to be heard.

"Sheriff's Office.  Sheriff Becky speaking."

"Hello?  This is Mrs. Cory Jackson on Maple Street in Minersville.  Is this you, Sheriff Becky?"

"Yes," Becky replied.  "Is everything okay?"

"Sheriff, I'm a bit concerned.  Andre is working late down at the Courthouse, and the boys are all home.  They are downstairs in the family room.  But, there is a group of about 20 bikers riding up and down our street, hootin' and hollerin' with Confederate flags flyin'.  They raise their fists when they pass our house; they slow down and stare.  It's hard to ignore."

"Cory, has anyone approached the house?," Becky asked.  She could feel anxious butterflies rising in her stomach.  Her shoulder muscles were tensing-up just as they would before a firefight.  Her body was responding to potential danger.

"No, just noise right now."

"Okay.  Good." [No sense asking if she felt threatened. She would not have called otherwise]. "Stay inside until Andre comes home.  I will try to contact him at his office. Lock the first floor doors and windows as a precaution.  I will send a patrol car to your address ASAP.  Call me back if anything changes."

Becky hung up and mentally checked off the best ways to respond.  She remembered that her best deputy, Max Flint, an Iraq war vet, had just begun a shift on night patrol tonight and radioed him in the car.  Max was a big, sturdy guy and a former Army Ranger (75th Ranger Regiment) who had confronted bikers before and was imposing enough to give them pause.  He was also a local boy, just like her, from down the valley, although younger.  She told him the situation and directed him to the Jacksons' address.  He would know what to do.

She then called Andre Jackson's law offices and learned that he had left in a hurry to head home.  She figured that he would be calm under pressure, but who knew how measured he would be if Cory was agitated or anxious.  And Becky reminded herself that there were three teenage boys in the house as well.  A volatile mix?

Becky mentally catalogued the equipment in her cruiser.  There was a laptop and two-way radio, mounted video camera, first aid kit, fire extinguishers, flares, and storage in the trunk.  She stopped at the rack on the way to the car and picked up the Mossberg 500 "Bullpup" shotgun and extra shells.  (While her deputies laughed at her preference of an older street howirzer, she called it "ole' reliable."). A couple of flash-bangs couldn't hurt either.  One never knows.

She decided that one cruiser visible at the residence signalled official concern.... to the Jacksons, to the bikers, to the neighborhood at large. Anything more right now might be overly triggering. She decided to park up the street and around the corner without lights and sirens, but approached the front door in full uniform and with her hand casually on her holstered gun. She looked around from the wide porch and back to the street. Max's cruiser was pulled up opposite the front door. The "hootin' and hollerin'" had ceased, some of the raised fists were lowered. Only the motorcycle engines could be heard.

Becky saw Max at the front door talking with Cory.  His huge body was half-turned, she noted, shielding Cory with one side and partially facing the bikers.  His was a figure to give someone pause if they meant trouble.

As Becky came up the front stairs, she could see D'Andre walking down the interior hallway toward the entrance way of the house.  His brow was furrowed, looking both determined and protective, she thought, his fists were clenched at his sides.  A fresh bandage was around his head.  Coming onto the porch, Becky addressed him first, keeping her voice calm and measured.